We mounted at last to the donjon and looked down upon the moat, which was grass-grown; and upon the sally-ports in the walls and the battlements, time-stained and covered in places with ivy, the growth of centuries.
"They used to give battle in those days," said Winifred. "Wasn't it fine to mount the flag on this tower and say to invaders that you would die before you gave up the castle?" Her cheek glowed, and she tossed back the curls which were tumbling about her forehead. "And then the trumpets would be sounding down below, and the horses of the knights neighing, their lances shining, their banners waving. Oh, I wish I had lived at that time!"
Her words had called up a vivid picture from the past, and for a moment I stood and let my eyes wander out far over the hills. But Winifred called to me, and, taking my hand, led me down the winding stairs again. After that we went in and out of a succession of apartments, bewildering in their number and size; all bare, lofty, stone-walled and stone-paved. Here and there a faded tapestry still lingered, or a banner fluttered in the breeze which stole in through many a crack and cranny. At each pause which we made my guide was able to tell me some entrancing story, some bit of legendary lore which had all the charm of reality.
"If you know about the Red Branch Knights," said Winifred, "you must have heard of Cuchullin."
"He is the Lancelot of Irish romance," I assented.
"Well, I don't know anything about Lancelot," replied Winifred.
"It doesn't matter for the moment," I said. "Lancelot was a knight of great valor, always doing noble deeds."
"So was Cuchullin!" cried Winifred, eagerly. "Oh, I could tell you wonderful things he did, even as a boy!"
"Tell me one, at any rate," I pleaded.