at the foot of the
mighty crag that was crowned by the Castle of Roccaleone.

Grim and gaunt it loomed above the fertile vale, with that torrent
circling it in a natural moat, like a giant sentinel of the Apennines
that were its background. And now the sunlight raced down the slopes of
the old mountains like a tide. It smote the square tower of the keep,
then flowed adown the wall, setting the old grey stone a-gleaming, and
flashing back from a mullioned window placed high up. Lower it came,
revealing grotesque gargoyles, flooding the crenellated battlements and
turning green the ivy and lichen that but a moment back had blackened
the stout, projecting buttresses. Thence it leapt to the ground, and
drove the shadow before it down the grassy slope, until it reached
the stream and sparkled on its foaming, tumbling waters, scattering a
hundred colours through the flying spray.

And all that time, until the sun had reached him and included him in the
picture it was awakening, the Count of Aquila sat in his saddle, with
thoughtful eyes uplifted to the fortress.

Then, Lanciotto following him, he walked his horse round the western
side, where the torrent was replaced by a smooth arm of water, for
which a cutting had been made to complete the isolation of the crag of
Roccaleone. But here, where the castle might more easily have become
vulnerable, a blank wall greeted him, broken by no more than a narrow
slit or two midway below the battlements. He rode on towards the
northern side, crossing a footbridge that spanned the river, and at
last coming to a halt before the entrance tower. Here again the moat was
formed by the torrential waters of the mountain stream.

He bade his servant rouse the inmates, and Lanciotto hallooed in a voice
that nature had made deep and powerful. The echo of it went booming up
to scare the birds on the hillside, but evoked no answer from the silent
castle.

"They keep a zealous watch," laughed the Count. "Again, Lanciotto."

The man obeyed him, and again and again his deep voice rang out like a
trumpet-call before sign was made from within that it had been heard.
At length, above the parapet of the tower appeared a stunted figure with
head unkempt, as grotesque almost as any of the gargoyles beneath, and
an owlish face peered at them from one of the crenels of the battlement,
and demanded, in surly, croaking tones their business. Instantly the
Count recognised Peppe.

"Good morrow, fool," he b