I put my head out of the window, and I saw a tall footman standing on the platform amongst a lot of porters, and country women with their heads covered with shawls. I beckoned to him, and he came at a run.
"Are you Mr Wilder's footman?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Oh, just see to my luggage, please," I said, getting out. I followed him to the road beside the station where a carriage was waiting, a closed carriage and pair, just like the one that had driven me to the station in London.
We passed four desolate-looking crossroads. The moon, which had risen, was lighting all the scenery round about, and I pulled down the left-hand window to get a glimpse of the view and a breath of the keen, pure air.
On a hill opposite I saw the ruins of a castle cut sharp against the sky. I had seen that castle before. Was I positive? Positive. Look! I said to myself. Look at that white zig-zag pathway down the hill, look at the hill itself. Then, as I looked, an indescribable feeling came over me, a delightful, far-away sort of feeling. It seemed dawn, bright, clear, and cold. I thought I could catch the sound of a distant horn, I thought I could feel the claws of a falcon on my wrist. I seemed riding on a horse, not as a woman rides, but as a man. I felt unutterably happy. It was the happiness of love. You understand me, I was perfectly well awake, but this feeling, how can I describe it, so dim, sweet, and far-away.
Then the carriage stopped. It seems that I had put my finger through the little ivory ring of the check-string, and had pulled it without knowing. The footman came to the window, and touched his hat.
"Can you tell me the name of that castle?" I asked. "That castle on the hill."
"Castle Sinclair, ma'am."
"Oh! drive on, please." I think I said "Drive on, please," but I cannot be sure; at all events we drove on. I was not terrified, I was dazed.