floor of the dungeon a _pathlet_ [_vionnet_], or little path, as if one
had beaten it out with a hammer." He was fastened by a chain four feet
in length to one of the beautiful Gothic pillars of the vault, and you
still see where this gentle scholar, this sweet humorist, this wise and
lenient philosopher, paced to and fro those weary years like a restless
beast--a captive wolf, or a bear in his pit. But his soul was never in
prison. As he trod that _vionnet_ out of the stone he meditated upon his
reading, his travels, the state of the Church and its reform, politics,
the origin of evil. "His reflections often lifted him above men and
their imperfect works; often, too, they were marked by that scepticism
which knowledge of the human heart inspires. 'When one considers things
well,' he said, 'one finds that it is easier to destroy the evil than to
construct the good. This world being fashioned like an ass's back, the
fardel that you would balance in the middle will not stay there, but
hangs over on the other side.'"

Bonivard was set free by the united forces of Berne and Geneva,
preaching political and religious liberty by the cannon's mouth, as has
had so often to happen. That too must have seemed droll to Bonivard when
he came to think it over in his humorous way. "The epoch of the
Renaissance and the Reformation was that of strong individualities and
undaunted characters. But let no one imagine a resemblance between the
prior of St. Victor and the great rebels his contemporaries, Luther,
Zwinglius, and Calvin. Like them he was one of the learned men of his
time; like them he learned to read the Evangels, and saw their light
disengage itself from the trembling gleams of tradition; but beyond that
he has nothing in common with them. Bonivard is not a hero; he is not
made to obey or to command; he is an artist, a kind of poet, who treats
high matters of theology in a humorous spirit; prompt of repartee,
gifted with happy dash; his irony has lively point, and he likes to