“Blow thine horn, Almeric.”
It was long blown in vain, but at length an old man in squalid attire, with long dishevelled gray locks and matted beard, appeared at the window of the watch tower above.
“Whom seek ye here, in the haunted Castle of Fievrault?”
“The sword of its last lord, that I may bear it to the Holy Land in his name, and lay it on the Holy Sepulchre of our Lord.”
“Thou art the man the fates foretell. Lo, I will let down the bridge, and thou mayst enter.”
“What a squalid old man! Can he be the sole inhabitant?” said Almeric in a whisper.
The rusty machinery creaked, the bridge sank into its appointed place, and at the same moment the portcullis was heard to wind up with a grating sound. The little troop entered the courtyard through the gateway in the tower.
A ruined castle! the dismantled towers rose around them with the great hall, the windows broken, the casement shattered. Ivy grew around the fragments, and embracing them, veiled their squalidness with its green robe, making that picturesque which anon was hideous. But company gives confidence, and our little troop rode, laughing and talking, into the haunted Castle of Fievrault.
“I have no food,” said the old man.
“We need none; we have brought both meat and wine. Wilt thou share it? Thou look’st as if a good meal might do thee good.”