st countless terraces to the very base of
the rocky, jagged eminence at whose top, a full mile above the last
sprinkling of houses, stands the isolated, bleak Monastery. The view
from these upper streets, before one enters the circuitous and hidden
Monastery road that winds afar in its climb, is never to be forgotten by
the spectator, no matter how often he traverses the lofty thoroughfares.
As far as the eye can reach, lies the green valley, through which winds
the silvery river with its evergreen banks and spotless white
houses-greens and whites that almost shame the vaunted tints of old
Ireland as one views them from the incoming steamers. Immediately below
one's feet lies the compact little city, with its red roofs and green
chimney pots, its narrow streets and vivid awnings, its wide avenues and
the ancient Castle to the north. To the south, the fortress and the
bridges; encircling the city a thick, high wall with here and there
enormous gates flanked by towers so grim and old that they seem ready to
topple over from the sheer fatigue of centuries. A soft, Indian summer
haze hangs over the lazy-lit valley; it is always so in the summer time.

Outside the city walls stretch the wheat-fields and the meadows, the
vineyards and orchards, all snug in the nest of forest-crowned hills,
whose lower slopes are spotted with broken herds of cattle and the more
mobile flocks of sheep. An air of tranquillity lies low over the entire
vista; one dozes if he looks long into this peaceful bowl of plenty.

From the distant passes in the mountains to the east and north come the
dull intonations of dynamite blasts, proving the presence of that
disturbing element of progress which is driving the railroad through the
unbroken heart of the land.

It is a good three hours' ride to the summit of Monastery Mountain. And,
after the height has been attained, one does not care to linger long
among the chilly, whistling crags, with their snow-crevasses and bitter
winds; the utter loneliness, the aloofness of this frost-crowned crest
appals, disheartens one who loves the fair, green things of life. In the
shelter of the crags, at the base of the Monastery walls, looking out
over the sunlit valley, one has his luncheon and his snack of spirits
quite undisturbed, for the monks pay no heed to him. They are not
hospitable, neither are they unfriendly. One seldom sees them.

Truxton King and Mr. Hobbs were not long in disposing of their lunch. It