The tower adjoining was also converted into a great chamber of audience,—a “Ritter-Saal,”—hung round with weapons of the chase and war, while great buffets displayed a wealth of antique plate and china, of gem-wrought cups and massive flagons, that lent a lustre to its otherwise too stern appearance. Lighted by a range of stained windows far from the ground, the tempered sunlight cast a mellow glance on every object; and here, in the silence of the noon, when the workmen had gone to dinner, Mary used to sit alone, some strange spell fascinating her to a spot where echoes had once awoke to the tramp of her own kinsmen's footsteps.
“Tell me, Mr. Linton,” said she, as he entered suddenly, and found her seated in her favorite place, “what part of the chapel adjoins the wall we see yonder?”
“That,” said Linton, musing for a second,—“that, if I mistake not, must be what you styled the crypt; the—”
“Exactly!” cried she, with animation. “The crypt is somewhat lower than this chamber, two steps or so?”
“About as much.”
“How strange, how very strange!” she said, half to herself.
“What is strange!” said Linton, smiling at the intense preoccupation of her features.
“You will laugh outright,” said she, “if I tell you. It was a dream I had last night about this chamber.”
“Pray let me hear it,” said Linton, seating himself, and affecting a deep interest “I own to a most implicit confidence in dreams.”
“Which is more than I do,” said she, laughing. “This has, however, so much of truth about it, as the locality is concerned, and thus far it is curious. Are you certain that you never told me before that the crypt lay outside of that wall?”