“It never occurs,” said Eskurola quickly, “because the Basque always chooses not to permit himself to be saved. It is a traditional law among us as strong as that against the disgrace of suicide.”
Their feet were sounding over a bridge: the bridge, as Cartaret reflected, to the castle’s moat. Through the light of the torches, the great gray walls of the pile climbed above him and disappeared into the night. A studded door, with mighty heaving of bolts, swung open before them, and they passed through into a vaulted gateway. The pine-knots cast dancing shadows on the stones.
Into what medieval world was he being admitted? Did Vitoria indeed inhabit it? And if she did, what difficulties and dangers must he overcome before ever he could take her thence?
Don Ricardo was speaking.
“I welcome you to my poor home,” he said.
Cartaret’s heart beat high. He was ready for any difficulty, for any danger....
With a solemn boom the great gate swung shut behind him. He felt that it had shut out the Twentieth Century.
CHAPTER XIV
SOMETHING OR OTHER ABOUT TRADITIONS
... Since we must part, down right
With happy day; burdens well borne are light.
—Donne: Eleg. XIII.