They are small iron bedsteads, each with its
narrow mattress, and covered with a dark blanket. On some of them lay or
lounged a soldier; other soldiers were cleaning their accoutrements;
elsewhere we saw parties of them playing cards. So it was wherever we
went among those large, dingy, gloomy halls and chambers, which, no
doubt, were once stately and sumptuous, with pictures, with tapestry, and
all sorts of adornment that the Middle Ages knew how to use. The windows
threw a sombre light through embrasures at least two feet thick. There
were staircases of magnificent breadth. We were shown into two small
chapels, in different parts of the building, both containing the remains
of old frescos wofully defaced. In one of them was a light, spiral
staircase of iron, built in the centre of the room as a means of
contemplating the frescos, which were said to be the work of our old
friend Giotto. . . . . Finally, we climbed a long, long, narrow stair,
built in the thickness of the wall, and thus gained access to the top of
one of the towers, whence we saw the noblest landscapes, mountains,
plains, and the Rhone, broad and bright, winding hither and thither, as
if it had lost its way.
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