Colonel Quaritch, V.C. | Page 7

down the slope, and crossing a couple of wheat
fields came to a succession of broad meadows, somewhat sparsely
timbered. Through these the footpath ran right up to the grim gateway
of the ancient Castle, which now loomed before them, outlined in red

lines of fire against the ruddy background of the sunset sky.
"Ay, it's a fine old place, Colonel, isn't it?" said the Squire, catching the
exclamation of admiration that broke from his companion's lips, as a
sudden turn brought them into line with the Norman ruin.
"History--that's what it is; history in stone and mortar; this is historic
ground, every inch of it. Those old de la Molles, my ancestors, and the
Boisseys before them, were great folk in their day, and they kept up
their position well. I will take you to see their tombs in the church
yonder on Sunday. I always hoped to be buried beside them, but I can't
manage it now, because of the Act. However, I mean to get as near to
them as I can. I have a fancy for the companionship of those old Barons,
though I expect that they were a roughish lot in their lifetimes. Look
how squarely those towers stand out against the sky. They always
remind me of the men who built them-- sturdy, overbearing fellows,
setting their shoulders against the sea of circumstance and caring
neither for man nor devil till the priests got hold of them at the last.
Well, God rest them, they helped to make England, whatever their
faults. Queer place to choose for a castle, though, wasn't it? right out in
an open plain."
"I suppose that they trusted to their moat and walls, and the hagger at
the bottom of the dry ditch," said the Colonel. "You see there is no
eminence from which they could be commanded, and their archers
could sweep all the plain from the battlements."
"Ah, yes, of course they could. It is easy to see that you are a soldier.
They were no fools, those old crusaders. My word, we must be getting
on. They are hauling down the Union Jack on the west tower. I always
have it hauled down at sunset," and he began walking briskly again.
In another three minutes they had crossed a narrow by-road, and were
passing up the ancient drive that led to the Castle gates. It was not
much of a drive, but there were still some half-dozen of old pollard
oaks that had no doubt stood there before the Norman Boissey, from
whose family, centuries ago, the de la Molles had obtained the property
by marriage with the heiress, had got his charter and cut the first sod of
his moat.

Right before them was the gateway of the Castle, flanked by two great
towers, and these, with the exception of some ruins were, as a matter of
fact, all that remained of the ancient building, which had been
effectually demolished in the time of Cromwell. The space within,
where the keep had once stood, was now laid out as a flower garden,
while the house, which was of an unpretentious nature, and built in the
Jacobean style, occupied the south side of the square, and was placed
with its back to the moat.
"You see I have practically rebuilt those two towers," said the Squire,
pausing underneath the Norman archway. "If I had not done it," he
added apologetically, "they would have been in ruins by now, but it
cost a pretty penny, I can tell you. Nobody knows what stuff that old
flint masonry is to deal with, till he tries it. Well, they will stand now
for many a long day. And here we are"--and he pushed open a porch
door and then passed up some steps and through a passage into an oak-
panelled vestibule, which was hung with tapestry originally taken, no
doubt, from the old Castle, and decorated with coats of armour, spear
heads, and ancient swords.
And here it was that Harold Quaritch once more beheld the face which
had haunted his memory for so many months.

CHAPTER III
THE TALE OF SIR JAMES DE LA MOLLE
"Is that you, father?" said a voice, a very sweet voice, but one of which
the tones betrayed the irritation natural to a healthy woman who has
been kept waiting for her dinner. The voice came from the recesses of
the dusky room in which the evening gloom had gathered deeply, and
looking in its direction, Harold Quaritch could see the outline of a tall
form sitting in an old oak chair with its hands crossed.
"Is that you, father? Really it is too bad to be so late for dinner--
especially after you blew up that wretched Emma last night because she

was