Rising, ever rising in the white moonlight, the old fortress which they had deemed fallen forever, was rebuilding itself. Up, up shot the walls, battlemented now and perfect. Behind them, tower on tower, pinnacle upon pinnacle, lifted into the clear silver radiance as the white foam of a rising wave might lift-lifted and froze into perfect form-till the vision or mirage or miracle-whatever this marvel might be named-was consummate and growth ceased. Here and there a pennant fluttered in the faint night breeze. From the highest tower of all a great standard drooped, too heavy for so small a wind to raise.
And now it could be seen that close to where they stood a narrow white road led upward from plain to castle, ending at a huge gateway immediately above them. Suddenly the heavy, iron-studded doors of this gateway opened inward and swung slowly back. Beyond them all was darkness. Then came the first sound from the ghost castle-a heavy stamping, a clash and jingle as of metal. Out of the inner darkness a great horse strode into the moonlight. Upon its back sat a gleaming, erect, armed figure. Five more riders followed. Then the gates slowly, silently shut themselves. The company of six came riding down the pale roadway.
Drayton, for his part, felt arising within him a vast curiosity-a curiosity so great that he actually left his companions and walked over to the roadside.
He had advanced with the deliberate intention of questioning those mysterious riders. As they drew near, however, he turned and strode quickly back to Trenmore and his sister.
"What is the matter?" queried Viola. "Why didn't you ask them who they are and the name of the castle?"
Drayton's reply was voiced in a tense, fierce whisper.
"Look at them-only look at them, I tell you!"
His tone seemed to rouse his friends from the strange apathy into which they had all more or less fallen since setting foot on the plain.
They stood no more than eight or nine yards from the road, and could see very well what Drayton had already perceived. The horses were large, heavy brutes, of the type bred centuries ago for battle. They were spirited in a clumsy sort of way, and came curveting and prancing down the road. But the men on their backs-why, those were not men, nor even the ghosts of men! They were mere empty shells of gleaming armor.
The visors of all six were raised, and the watchers could see how the moonlight shimmered inside the helmets.