The old castle on the hill had for many years been left desolate, the last known visit of its mysterious owners having taken place on the occasion of the coming of age of the heir and only surviving child, now about eight years ago. There had been grand doings then at the castle: illuminations, feasting and dancing, visitors coming and going from the neighbouring castles, lights burning brilliantly night after night in all the mullioned windows, for on this great occasion no less a guest had been entertained at Bryn Afon than King James himself. Among several Welsh favourites, none held so high a place in the king's esteem and regard as Lord Bryn Afon, who spent much time about the Court, and but seldom cared to dwell among his own people in his riverside stronghold, about whose grim grey walls, fast succumbing under the ravages of time and neglect, there clung the dark and dreadful curse, which none dared name but in hushed whispers, but which had for generations past only too surely held fast each successive earl in its dread toils, each having in his turn to fight his way to the grave through its unknown horrors, beckoned by its relentless finger from the pleasures of the Court or the gay scenes of foreign travel, back to its hideous clutches on the desolate hillside, there to pass away, long ere his threescore years and ten were reached, in a shadow of gloom and mystery which none dared try to penetrate, and whose dark veil no gossiping retainer had ever been known to lift to the outside world.