The whole of this part of the structure is of Roman workmanship, but the dungeons to which they lead are evidently of German construction; and were, no doubt, appendages to the original pile; and designed for the exercise of some of the delightful eccentricities of German Margraves or Margravines, which Keet called “little amiabilities of temper and prejudice.” We now reached a low vaulted room, and our guide, with great coolness, took from his German small clothes, two thick candles, which having lighted, we were told to carry them. “Gents,” said he, “look to your heads against the walls, your feet against the floors, and your elbows against the angles, don’t step into holes, and say your prayers when you see a cross upon the stones, for that place once belonged to——one who shall be nameless.” Our guide now unbolted a small door, and descending two or three steps, we entered a narrow passage which we could just squeeze through, and this terminated in a square, vaulted room. The aspect of the passage, and still more the dismal horror of the vault, which Keet said, “smelt of bye-gone silent systems,” removed all fears that I should not find dungeons terrible enough. It was quite impossible that stone walls can convey a feeling of more hopeless desolation. From this square room branched one more opening; but the utter darkness, the earthy smell, the coldness, the damp, the sullen mystery of the intricate windings it comprehended were such, that we now made, what Keet called, an “awful pause.” Our guide, however, was not so timid. He said, courageously, “Come allons, gents. If you die here, you will not want a burying,” and he led the way, with a “mind your head here,” and “mind your feet there.” We were, after many tortuous windings, stopped by a door of stone, a foot thick, hewn in one piece out of the granite rock. This door stood ajar, and our “Ferocio” opened it with his thick stick, which he used as a lever. We squeezed past it—Keet gave it one of his pious addresses, and made the sign of the cross. “This is the little Bijou,” said the guide, “a nice little gem of a prison.” It was a small, vaulted stone room, utterly dark, damp, cold, and horribly mouldy to the nose and lungs—and deadly to the body and soul. We shuddered—Keet looked savage, and clenched his “cheese-toaster” with revenge in his looks, as if he would have summoned up the Ghost of the villainous Old Baron—who could form such dungeons—back again to earth, to have a stab at him.