In the distance we could make out the island close to the ferry, with some trees on it, and from our direction there appeared to be but three. My thoughts at once flew back to the island on the Lake of Geneva, which Byron has immortalised in his ‘Prisoner of Chillon,’ and on which poor Bonnivard would gaze with sadness and yearning for freedom and life.
And then there was a little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view.
A small green isle, it seemed no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor;
But in it there were three tall trees,
And o’er it blew the mountain breeze.
And by it there were waters flowing,
And on it there were young flowers growing