"Spinster?" said the priest, in a mild voice.
"Yes," said the lady, gravely, and with deep sadness. It seemed to the priest that he had unwittingly touched upon a tender point.
"Pardon me," said he, "this is all I wish to get at. You are not a politician, not a political agent, not a spy?"
"Certainly not."
"Nor a newspaper correspondent?"
"No."
"Not even an artist?"
"No; nothing but a simple English lady, and only anxious to get back home."
"Very well—very good!" said the priest, approvingly. "And you shall go home, too; but remember what I said, and trust in me. And now let us see what we had better do. I've been here before, all through and through this country, and know it like a book. Now just over there, a little to the west, there is an old unoccupied castle, which is in very good condition, considering that it's a thousand years old. It is just the place for us. Unfortunately, there may be others in it, for it is held from time to time by the one or the other of the fighting factions; yet, even in that case I know of an odd corner or two where we can elude observation for the present; for it is a very—a monstrously large castle, and I happen to know the ins and outs of it pretty well. I can assure you a good night's rest there."
"It is not inhabited, you say."