Following the narrow staircase still higher, they came to another room
of similar size and equally forlorn, but inhabited by two personages of
a race which from time immemorial have held proprietorship and occupancy
in ruined towers. These were a pair of owls, who, being doubtless
acquainted with Donatello, showed little sign of alarm at the entrance
of visitors. They gave a dismal croak or two, and hopped aside into the
darkest corner, since it was not yet their hour to flap duskily abroad.

"They do not desert me, like my other feathered acquaintances," observed
the young Count, with a sad smile, alluding to the scene which Kenyon
had witnessed at the fountain-side. "When I was a wild, playful boy, the
owls did not love me half so well."

He made no further pause here, but led his friend up another flight of
steps--while, at every stage, the windows and narrow loopholes afforded
Kenyon more extensive eye-shots over hill and valley, and allowed him
to taste the cool purity of mid-atmosphere. At length they reached the
topmost chamber, directly beneath the roof of the tower.

"This is my own abode," said Donatello; "my own owl's nest."

In fact, the room was fitted up as a bedchamber, though in a style of
the utmost simplicity. It likewise served as an oratory; there being
a crucifix in one corner, and a multitude of holy emblems, such as
Catholics judge it necessary to help their devotion withal. Several
ugly little prints, representing the sufferings of the Saviour, and the
martyrdoms of saints, hung on the wall; and behind the crucifix there
was a good copy of Titian's Magdalen of the Pitti Palace, clad only in
the flow of her golden ringlets. She had a confident look (but it was
Titian's fault, not the penitent woman's), as if expecting to win