e.

"Whom seek ye here, in the haunted Castle of Fievrault?"

"The sword of its last lord, that I may bear it to the Holy Land in
his name, and lay it on the Holy Sepulchre of our Lord."

"Thou art the man the fates foretell. Lo, I will let down the
bridge, and thou mayst enter."

"What a squalid old man! Can he be the sole inhabitant?" said
Almeric in a whisper.

The rusty machinery creaked, the bridge sank into its appointed
place, and at the same moment the portcullis was heard to wind up
with a grating sound. The little troop entered the courtyard
through the gateway in the tower.

A ruined castle! the dismantled towers rose around them with the
great hall, the windows broken, the casement shattered. Ivy grew
around the fragments, and embracing them, veiled their squalidness
with its green robe, making that picturesque which anon was
hideous. But company gives confidence, and our little troop rode,
laughing and talking, into the haunted Castle of Fievrault.

"I have no food," said the old man.

"We need none; we have brought both meat and wine. Wilt thou share
it? Thou look'st as if a good meal might do thee good."

"I have eaten my frugal meal already, and desire none of your cates
and dainties. Lo, I am ready to conduct you to the hall where hangs
the sword of the man whom thy father slew one Friday long ago, and
it will be well for thee but to tarry while thou takest it and then
depart."

"We will eat our nuncheon, with your leave, in the castle hall."

"I cannot say you nay."

He took them to the half-dismantled dining hall, where hung the
portraits of the old lords of Fievrault rudely limned, and
conspicuous amongst them those of the founder of the house, and his
loathly lady; the painter had not flattered them.

There hung several swords, rusty with age and disuse, two-handed
weapons which it required a giant strength to wield; huge
battle-axes, maces, clubs tipped with iron spikes, ancient suits of
armour, rusty and unsightly, as old clothing of that sort is apt to
become after the lapse of years. There was no vacant hook now, for
at the end of the row hung the sword of the ill-fated Sieur de
Fievrault, the last of his grim race.

The Englishmen gazed upon the portraits, which they regarded with
insular irreverence (what were French knights and dames to them?),
then without awe spread the contents of their wallets on the board,
and feasted in serenity and ease.

When it was over the wine