But only the ancient and rusting hinges remained of either gate or wicket.
He looked up at the carved escutcheons; the moss of many centuries had softened and smothered the sculptured device, so that its form had become indistinguishable.
Inside stood a stone lodge. Tiles had fallen from the ancient roof; leaded panes were broken; nobody came to the closed and discoloured door of massive oak.
The avenue, which was merely an unkempt, overgrown ride, curved away between the great gateposts into the woods; and, as he entered it, three deer left stealthily, making no sound in the forest.
Nobody was to be seen, neither gatekeeper nor woodchopper nor charcoal burner. Nothing moved amid the trees except a tiny, silent bird belated in his autumn migration.
The ride curved to the east; and abruptly he came into view of the house—a low,[pg 100] weather-ravaged structure in the grassy glade, ringed by a square, wet moat.
There was no terrace; the ride crossed a permanent bridge of stone, passed the carved and massive entrance, crossed a second crumbling causeway, and continued on into the forest.
An old Breton woman, who was drawing a jug of water from the moat, turned and looked at Neeland, and then went silently into the house.
A moment later a younger woman appeared on the doorstep and stood watching his approach.
As he crossed the bridge he took off his cap.