“One would think,” he murmured, “that the place had withstood a siege.”
That it was designed with an eye to such a contingency, the massive nature of its window-shutters would seem to point. These—all of which had been obviously only recently thrown open—were of a common pattern of studded oak, and their hinges were sunk deep in the masonry of the walls. Closed, their power of resistance would have been as that of the stones themselves.
Throughout the house, when its owner came to explore it, this same feature was apparent. The building, in an emergency, could have been sealed as securely as a castle.
Mr. Tuke found his breakfast laid in the room where he had supped. As he entered the figure of a girl, that had been busy at the table, came forward as if to pass him. He barred her way, and she stopped immediately.
“Are you Darda?” said he.
She gave a shrill laugh, and “Yes,” she answered.
She was an eldritch creature and undersized; but the clean symmetry of her limbs was perfect, and her manners of movement showed all the mingled grace and self-consciousness of a child of ten. In her face was a marvellous contrast of colour, that was even startling on first acquaintance—for the skin was white as bleached kid, but the eyebrows were very dark; and the piled heap of hair that curled down upon her forehead was of a bright coppery tint.
She nodded at the intruder, and showed a line of even teeth.
“You come in good time for the shadows,” she said. “In the autumn the house is dark with them.”
“What shadows, girl?”