Built by Bishop Adam Houghton towards the close of the fourteenth century, the college chapel, with its vast Perpendicular windows, must in former times have presented an imposing appearance. Here the founder lay at rest under a sumptuous canopy, of which, however, not a vestige now remains. Beneath the chapel is a low groined crypt, but the various collegiate offices which lay to the north have long since been swept away; while the crumbling arcades of the cloisters serve nowadays to shelter the benches of the masons employed in repairing the cathedral. St. Non's Chapel, the reputed birthplace of St. David, stands in an open meadow overlooking the sea, about a mile outside the city. It is a mere tumbled mass of rude cyclopean masonry, and has no features worthy of note save a simple cross enclosed within a circle, engraved upon an upright slab of stone. An ancient well dedicated to St. Non, the mother of St. David, occupies a corner of the same field. Some quaint traditions hang around the old chapel called Capel Stinian, whose scanty ruins overlook Ramsey Sound. St. Justinian, the patron saint, was treacherously slain by his own followers on Ramsey Island, whereupon the holy man arose, walked across the straits, and was buried where his chapel now stands. The assassins, having been smitten with leprosy, were banished to Gwahan Garreg, the Lepers' Rock. The story runs that the Puritans stole away the chapel bells, which were famed for their musical sound; but a great storm arising, the vessel in which they endeavoured to escape with their booty was overwhelmed, and the bells cast into the sea. So on stormy nights when the deep, strong tide is troubling the waters, the dwellers near Ramsey Sound still hear the chimes of those long-lost bells, above all the strife of the elements. Across the straits rises the broad bulk of Ramsey Island: smooth and tame enough on this side, but presenting to the western ocean a grim array of tall inaccessible cliffs and gloomy caverns, the haunt of seals and sea-fowl innumerable. Farther out to sea lies the group of rocky islets known as the Bishop and his Clerks, 'who,' as George Owen has it, 'are not withoute some small Quiristers who shewe not themselves but at Spring Tydes and calme seas. The Bishop and these his Clerkes preache deadlie doctrine to their winter audience, such poore seafaring men as are forcyd thether by Tempest; onelie in one thinge are they to be commended; they keep residence better than the canons of that see are wont to doo.' Setting our course for the sea-girt promontory of St. Davids Head, we direct our steps towards the curious-looking hill called Carn Llidi. The bold peak of this monticle rises straight before us as we trudge across the sandy burrows, which, in the course of ages, have invaded the site of Roman Menapia, the elder sister of St. Davids.