He found himself walking in the forest, the stupor and the delirium alike passed. And now he was very sure he had been dreaming. Once more his brain was clear and steady. He half mocked at himself for his brief delusion.
Some half-dozen paces further on the trees thinned on a sudden. He came out upon a smooth grass sward beyond which stood a Castle, the light streaming from the windows.
CHAPTER XIII
CASTLE SYRTES
TRULY I would have thought, and you would have thought, and we might well imagine Peregrine would have thought, he had had enough of castles and the dwellers therein. Yet there is no question but that he welcomed very heartily its appearance before him. Here at least was the tangible, the solid, the very definitely material to counteract the sudden and extraordinary isolation of spirit which had fallen momentarily upon him. He had told himself it was a dream, a mere fantastic illusion of the brain wrought of the strange atmosphere of the forest; yet, for all that, the memory of the illusion, if such it was, lingered faintly with him, caused him to feel no little relief at the sight of the Castle. Where there is a dwelling, and moreover a lighted dwelling, there are doubtless human beings, and their presence would be of solace to him.
He crossed the grass sward, his feet striking noiselessly on the soft surface. Nearing the windows he looked within. Here he saw a large company seated at a well-furnished board. Glass and silver sparkled on the table. There were decanters full of red wine, dishes piled with fruits, flowers purple, scarlet, and orange. The guests themselves lent brilliance and colour to the scene. Surrounded by a living flower-wreath, so the board appeared; wind-swayed, sun-kissed, as they moved in talk and laughter, jewels on head, neck, and arm glittering in the light.
At the head of the board sat a woman in a robe of orange silk. Her hair, a tawny gold, bound with a fillet of flaming stones, shone with its own lustre, rivalled successfully the brilliance of her gown. Her skin, olive hued, glowed with a very subtle warmth. You guessed her body possessed of the fires of the South. Her eyes, a purple-blue, looked at you from beneath dark brows level and very beautifully marked. Her mouth, curved and modelled like a Greek mouth, squared faintly at the corners, showing her luxurious. Her nose, straight and finely chiselled, had delicately arched nostrils. She leaned back in her chair, a great one of carved ivory, and smiled at the faces around her.
One man sprang to his feet, a pretty youth in purple doublet and hose, a big amethyst hanging from a silver chain about his neck.
“To Thaïs!” he cried, raising his glass on high. The light shining through it the wine glowed like a ruby.
The flower-wreath about the table swayed, rose.