Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Fiction
As she spoke, she pushed aside her frame, and telling Dorothy to go and
fetch herself a cloak, went into the next room, whence she presently
returned, wrapped in a hooded mantle. As soon as Dorothy came, she led
her along the corridor to a small lobby whence a stair descended to the
court, issuing close by the gate.
'I shall never learn my way about,' said Dorothy. 'If it were only the
staircases, they are more than my memory will hold.'
Lady Margaret gave a merry little laugh.
'Harry set himself to count them the other day,' she said. 'I do not
remember how many he made out altogether, but I know he said there were
at least thirty stone ones.'
Dorothy's answer was an exclamation.
But she was not in the mood to dwell upon the mere arithmetic of
vastness. Invaded by the vision of the mighty structure, its aspect
rendered yet more imposing by the time which now suited with it, she
forgot lady Margaret's presence, and stood still to gaze.
The twilight had deepened half-way into night. There was no moon, and in
the dusk the huge masses of building rose full of mystery and awe. Above
the rest, the great towers on all sides seemed by indwelling might to
soar into the regions of air. The pile stood there, the epitome of the
story of an ancient race, the precipitate from its vanished life--a hard
core that had gathered in the vaporous mass of history--the all of solid
that remained to witness of the past.
She came again to herself with a start. Lady Margaret had stood quietly
waiting for her mood to change. Dorothy apologised, but her mistress
only smiled and said,
'I am in no haste, child. I like to see another impressed as I was when
first I stood just where you stand now. Come, then, I will show you
something different.'
She led the way along the southern side of the court until they came to
the end of the chapel, opposite which an archway pierced the line of
building, and revealed the mighty bulk of the citadel, the only portion
of the castle, except the kitchen-tower, continuing impregnable to
enlarged means of assault: gunpowder itself, as yet far from perfect in
composition and make, and conditioned by clumsy, uncertain, and
ill-adjustable artillery, was nearly powerless against walls more than
ten feet in thickness.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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