The Forest Lovers

A scud of wind and rain hampered Prosper on his ride over Goltres

Heath. The steady increase of both in volume and force kept him at

work all day; but towards dusk the wind dropped a little, the clouds

split and drifted in black shreds over a clear sky full of the yellow

evening light. Just at the twilight he came to a shallow mere edged

with reeds, with wild fowl swimming upon it, and others flying swiftly

over on their way to the nest. At the far end of the lake, but yet in

the water, was a dim castle settling down into the murk. A gaunt shell

it was, rather than a habitable place; its windows were sightless

black; only in the towers you could see through them the pale sky

behind. The wind ruffled the mere, little cold waves lapped in the

reeds; there was no other house in sight whichever way you turned. In

all the dun waste of raw and cold it was Goltres or nothing for a

night's lodging.

"Galors has been before me again," thought Prosper. "The place is a

skeleton, the husk of a house. Well, there must be a corner left which

will keep the rain out. We shall have more before day, if I am

anything of a prophet."

There was a huge bank of cloud to windward; the wind came uneasily, in

puffs, with a smell of rain. Prosper's horse shivered and shook

himself from head to heels.

"As I live," cried Prosper suddenly, "there is a light in the house."

In a high window there was certainly a flickering light. "Where

there's a light there's a man or a woman. Where there's one there is

room for two. I am for Goltres if I can win a passage."

Riding up the shore of the lake he found an old punt.

"Saracen," said he to his horse, "I shall take to the water. Thou

shalt go thy will this night, and may heaven send thee the luck of thy

master." So saying he unbridled him, took off his saddle and let him

go, himself got into the punt and pushed out over the mere.

The great hulk of Goltres rose threatening above him, fretted by

little waves, staring down from a hundred empty eyes. He made out a

water-gate and drove his punt towards it. It was open. He pushed in,

found a rotting stair, above it a door which was broken away and

hanging by one hinge.

"The welcome, withal free, is cold," quoth Prosper, "but we cannot

stand on ceremony. It might be well to make sure of my punt." He

manoeuvred it under the stair with some trouble, lashed it fore and

aft, and entered Goltres by the slippery ascent, addressing himself as

he went to God and Saint Mary the Virgin.