"I hope it is the castle."
The poor monk was very much alarmed; he feared it might be the monastery, and the reader knows he was right.
Now the heavens were lit up with intense brightness, now it faded again. It was long before they left the summit and the view of the reddened sky.
"May it not be the northern lights?"
"Nay, my son, it is south of us, and they never look quite like this. I fear me mischief is abroad, and shall not be happy till I get me home again tomorrow."
Poor Father Kenelm, the woods were now his sole home.
At length, as the brightness disappeared, they continued along the brook, until they reached a wide extent of flat meadow ground traversed by the stream, separated by low hills from the morass.
In the centre of the valley, if such it may be called, the brook divided, enclosing about an acre of ground, ere its streams met again, hurrying down to the morass. Deep and rapid as it was, its course had been but short; a copious spring burst from the ground not half a mile above, whence streams issuing different ways helped to form the slimy waste which girt in this little island of firm land.
There, in the ground enclosed by the divided stream, was the home once inhabited by the ancestors of our young hero. The monk knocked loudly at the door--no watch was kept--the marsh was their protection.
The dogs began to bark, and one or two which were loose came up, half disposed to make war upon the travellers, but they soon recognised the monk. Lights were seen, the doors opened, two or three sunburnt faces appeared in the doorway.