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been used by the Turks as barracks. Of these a part was modern, and consequently already in ruins ; but amongst this, and under this, were many parts that were ancient—solid stone staircases climbing ο to roofless chambers, and halls with ponderous vaulting, of which some were Byzantine. Nothing, however, retained any marked architectural character. All beauties of form and proportion had been lost, most likely for centuries. But the extent still remained of the labyrinthine structure—chamber after chamber, chapels, baths, and banquet halls, faintly and plaintively proclaiming to the eye what they had been, and reminding one by their silence of the life that had for ever left them. Oranges laid their cheeks against walls where had once been frescoes, and the long roofless corridors were carpeted now with violets. I said that the place had no architectural feature. As I was turning to leave it, however, I found that it had one. This was the inner side of the entrance tower. Over the door was a magnificent coat of arms—that of the Lu-signans—surmounted by a crown and a helmet ; and over this was a window which, the moment I set eyes on it, gave to the whole scene a new soul and sentiment. The lower part was defaced, battered, and broken, choked with bricks and ragged Venetian shutters, but its upper part was as perfect as in the days of its glory—a great Gothic arch filled with exquisite tracery. The impression I took away with me was one of 114 IN AN ENCHANTED ISLAND

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