wearisome one, and we saw little of the castle, being admitted only to
the entrance-hall and the small Gothic chapel, which was undergoing
restoration; but the fine view from the battlements alone is worth the
effort. The castle never figured in history and is remarkable chiefly
for its unique location. By the time of our return the tide had already
risen several feet and we were rowed to the mainland in a boat.

On our return to Truro we took the road by which we came, but on leaving
there our road roughly followed the Northern Cornish coast, and at
intervals we caught glimpses of the ocean. For some distance we ran
through a rough moorland country, although the road was comparatively
level and straight. We passed Camelford--which some say is the Camelot
of the Arthur legends--only five miles distant from the ruins of
Tintagel Castle on the coast, and came early to Launceston, where the
clean hospitable-looking White Hart Hotel offered strong inducements to
stop for the night. A certain weariness of the flesh, resulting from our
run over the last long stretch of the moorland road, was an equally
important factor in influencing our action.

[Illustration: ON DARTMOOR.

From Water Color by Vincent.]

Launceston was one of the surprises that we frequently came across--a
town that we had never heard of before and doubtless one that an
American seldom sees. Yet the massive castle, whose circular keep crowns
an eminence overlooking the town, was one of the objects that loomed
into view long before we reached the place, and its gloomy grandeur, as
we wandered through its ruins in the fading twilight, deeply impressed
us. A rude stairway led to the top of the great circular tower, rising