“To be sure we do, along with the jackdaws and ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
“Oh yes, we’ve three ghosts here. One lives in the old turret chamber; one in the south dungeon; and one in the guardroom over the south gate. This is the north gateway.”
Max shivered from cold and excitement, and then shrank close to his companion, for the dogs suddenly charged into the place, the hollow walls of the gloomy quadrangle echoing their baying, as all three, according to their means of speed, made at the stranger.
“Down, Bruce! Dirk, be off! You, Sneeshing, I’ll pitch you out of that window! It’s all right, Mr Blande; they won’t hurt you.”
Max did not seem reassured, even though the barking dwindled into low growls, and then into a series of snufflings, as the dogs followed behind, sniffing at the visitor’s heels.
“Do you really live here?” said Max, glancing up at the roofless buildings.
“Live here? of course,” replied Kenneth; “but we don’t eat and sleep in this part. We do that sort of thing out here.”
As he spoke, he led his companion through the farther gateway, along the groined crypt-like connecting passage, and at once into the handsome hall of the modern part, where a feeling of warmth and comfort seemed to strike upon Max Blande, as his eyes caught the trophies of arms and the chase, ranged between the stained glass windows, and his wet feet pressed the rugs and skins laid about the polished floor.
Kenneth noted the change, and, feeling as if it were time to do something to make his guest welcome, he said,—