The sun sank down behind the crag as the three crossed the grassland towards the water. Blood-red streamers streaked the sky; a golden mist ascended towards the woods. The island in the mere grew black as ebony, overarched by a canopy of scarlet clouds. Tristan could see a stone building rising from the island’s thickets, and the place breathed forth mystery towards the hastening night.
Ogier took a bugle horn that hung round his neck, and blew three blasts that set the wild woods ringing. At the sound a boat put out from the island and moved over the smooth water towards the bank. A strange babel of wild voices seemed to fall as from the sky. Cries came as from lost souls tortured in a burning pit. While Tristan listened with a frown on his face, the cries died down into the woodland silence.
The barge was rowed by an old man, with a beak of a nose, fierce, restless eyes, and a mouth like a flint. As the barge ran to the stage, the old man let a horse-board down. The barge could bear but one of them at a time. Tristan and the giant waited at the water’s edge while the boat bore Jocelyn over the water, to where the island rose sable as the night.
Tristan’s brows were knotted above his eyes. The mystery of the place had set him musing, casting about for Jocelyn’s reason in riding into such a wilderness. He questioned Ogier as they watched the barge.
“Where have we come?” he asked, with a keen stare into the giant’s face.
Ogier grinned and licked his lips.
“Men call it the Mad Mere,” he said. “Yonder house is a hospital for such as froth at the mouth when the moon is full.”
“And that clamour when you blew your horn?”
“The mad folk squealing. Old Nicholas chastens them often with his whip.”
Tristan still gazed at the island under his heavy brows.