The caretaker spoke up timidly, and made an involuntary motion of retreat.
“Who was that that went in before me—that has been stalking me all up the drive?”
“Ah, sir! You must hold her excused. I did not know she was out. It is my sister Darda.”
“The fiend take the jade! I’ll have her out bag and baggage if she trifles with me. Here, sir—do you know who I am? Take my horse and see that he has food and water.”
He stalked angrily past the shrinking figure and made his way into the passage.
“Go, now,” he said with an impatient stamp, “and join me when your service is done.”
The man went forth silently, and the new-comer turned to look about him.
It seemed that his most dour apprehensions were realized in that first view of his surroundings.
He saw a long hall, not too wide, that in its panelling of black oak looked a very catacomb of dismality in the light of a single flaring oil-lamp that stood up on a bracket, half-way down, and whose greasy radiance rather emphasized than relieved the enwrapping gloom. Somewhere in the further obscurity, the first steps of a stairway, with old carved-end posts, were evident; and here the windy darkness seemed to rise into vacancy like smoke up a chimney.
The traveller uttered a fretful expression, and pushing open a door to his left—through which a weak shaft of light issuing appeared to give promise of a certain comfort beyond—almost fell down a couple of stone steps that led straight into a large massive-beamed room, with a great hearth in it on which some smouldering faggots glowed with a dull crimson.