her, fulfil his threat of shooting the cat: and so we went on and
crossed the little wooden bridge leading to the gateway whence ran the
steep paved roadway between the Burg and the pentagonal Torture Tower.
As we crossed the bridge we saw the cat again down below us. When she
saw us her fury seemed to return, and she made frantic efforts to get up
the steep wall. Hutcheson laughed as he looked down at her, and said:

'Goodbye, old girl. Sorry I injured your feelin's, but you'll get over
it in time! So long!' And then we passed through the long, dim archway
and came to the gate of the Burg.

When we came out again after our survey of this most beautiful old place
which not even the well-intentioned efforts of the Gothic restorers of
forty years ago have been able to spoil--though their restoration was
then glaring white--we seemed to have quite forgotten the unpleasant
episode of the morning. The old lime tree with its great trunk gnarled
with the passing of nearly nine centuries, the deep well cut through the
heart of the rock by those captives of old, and the lovely view from the
city wall whence we heard, spread over almost a full quarter of an hour,
the multitudinous chimes of the city, had all helped to wipe out from
our minds the incident of the slain kitten.

We were the only visitors who had entered the Torture Tower that
morning--so at least said the old custodian--and as we had the place all
to ourselves were able to make a minute and more satisfactory survey
than would have otherwise been possible. The custodian, looking to us as
the sole source of his gains for the day, was willing to meet our wishes
in any way. The Torture Tower is truly a grim place, even now when many
thousands of visitors have sent a stream of life, and the joy that
follows life, into the place; but at the time I mention it wore its