There could not be anything more disappointing.

Two hundred years have effectually destroyed all distinctive traits, and they might have been sheep-folds or pig-sties, or any other innocent agricultural erection for aught that we could tell.

"Not a single house stood there but was the home of murder," says their historian.

The suns and rains of two hundred and odd years have effectually washed out their blood-stains, and there is nothing left there but peace.
Some way beyond the ruins stands a small stone cottage of the most modern order.

We found it to be the abode of a shepherd, away with his flock on the hills, but his wife, no shepherdess of the Dresden china order, but a hearty and substantial dame, gave us a cordial welcome.