The distance from the castle to the foot of Witch’s Crag was a full mile, perhaps a little more. Two-thirds of the way lay through the park, the remainder being woods.
The day had thus far been clear and bright. With the coming of noon it had grown to be very warm—almost too warm for September—but a gentle breeze fanned their cheeks and gave them comfort.
The course they were pursuing was toward the north. If there were clouds rising beyond the crag they did not see them. And had they seen them they would have taken no alarm.
“We must visit the old chapel of the monks!” said Cordelia, as they were entering the forest.
“Certainly,” responded Percy. “A visit to the Witch’s Crag, without paying one’s respects to the memory of the old Franciscans, would seem almost sacrilegious.”
Accordingly, when half-way through the wood, they turned into a path that swerved to the right, which they followed to the foot of the crag. They had seen the wonderful mass of ragged rock many times, yet they viewed it now in awe and wonder.
There it arose before them, a steep, wild ascent of broken, jagged rocks—ledge on ledge and bowlder on bowlder—until, at the summit, a height of 600 feet above sea level was reached.
And on that south side, which our adventurers had approached, the acclivity was bold and abrupt. Toward the west, as we remarked in the beginning, it sloped down gradually, its foot a mile and a half from the top, reaching to the water’s edge. But the rugged rise of the crag was not all of interest their eyes looked upon.
Bearing to the right, a short distance up the rough ascent, was seen what, at first sight, appeared to be a mass of rock, thus quaintly piled up by some wonderful convulsion of nature; but, upon nearer view, it was found to be the work of human hands.
It was a solid, massive structure; its walls built from the rock of the crag; large enough to comfortably accommodate three to four hundred people within.