Then the young lord spoke of the legends of his forefathers and the history of Stronghold.
"They are dusty tales," said the Nothingarian, "false, because they do not go to the root."
"How shall we get to the root?" asked the young lord, trembling with a new eagerness.
"There is only one way," answered the prophet. "Come with me."
As they went through the outer passageway the old man pressed hard with his hands against one of the stones in the wall, and a little door slid open.
"The secret stair," said he, "by which your fathers brought in their stolen women. Your Stronghold is honeycombed with lies."
The young lord's face was red as fire. "I never knew of it," he murmured.
In the vaulted crypt beneath the castle the old man found a lantern and a pickaxe. He went to an alcove walled with plaster and picked at it with the axe. The plaster fell away. On the floor of the alcove lay two crumpled bodies of men long dead; the clothes were rotting upon the bones and a dagger stuck fast in each back.
"They were stabbed as they sat at meat," said the old man, "for the gain of their gold. Your Stronghold is cemented with blood."
The young lord's face grew dark as night. "I never knew of it," he muttered.