Here, on the north side, was also a small, heavy door leading into a deep and narrow dungeon cut in the thickness of the wall, and having neither air nor light except that which entered by the doorway. “In this dismal hole the accomplished Sir Walter Raleigh passed the long years of his imprisonment, and here he wrote his History of the World.” “He had leisure enough for such a stupendous work; but I don’t see where he got space or light from, or how he could possibly have lived in such a dark, damp den,” said Dick. “Oh, you see, sir, it is to be supposed that he was only locked in there at night, and had the freedom of the hall during the day.” They next ascended the stairs to the second floor, and visited the ancient Council Chamber, where the old Kings held their Court at the Tower. This was the place of Anne Boleyn’s trial. Then on the same floor was St. John’s Chapel, the most perfect specimen of Norman architecture in the country. All these things Drusilla saw as in a dream. She was thinking only of her husband and the cold stare with which he had met her eyes. The guide led them from the White Tower to the green before the prison chapel—St. Peter’s. “Stop here a moment, if you please, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. They all paused, thinking from that point he was going to indicate some view or effect. But it was not so. “Do you know where you stand, ladies? No? Well, you stand upon the exact spot where the head of Anne Boleyn fell under the executioner’s stroke.” Anna impulsively sprang away. Dick and the General looked interested. But Drusilla heard him with something like indifference. Queen Anne’s sufferings were so long past and now so vague; Drusilla’s own were so present and so real. She was scarcely conscious of the remainder of her tour through the Tower buildings. The guide led the party into St. Peter’s chapel; told them it had been built in the reign of Edward I., 1282, and showed them the flag stones in front of the altar beneath which repose the remains of the sainted Lady Jane Grey, the venerable Thomas Cromwell, the good and great Somerset, the accomplished Surrey, the brilliant Essex, and many other less exalted but no less honorable martyrs to truth and patriotism, victims to bigotry and tyranny. Leaving St. Peter’s Chapel, our friends made the circuit of the twelve minor towers of the inner ward. These in the “good old times” were all used as prisons, lodgings for those who had had the misfortune to become obnoxious to despotism or fanaticism. Among these the richest in historic associations is the Beauchamp Tower, popularly called the Beechum Tower, whose walls are cut all over with the autographs or other inscriptions of the illustrious dead, who in its gloomy dungeons pined away the last days of their violently ended lives.