Clive looked very much crest-fallen at this. He was unable to disprove a fact of which the evidences were now so plain; but he struggled to maintain a little longer the respectability of his feudal castle. "Well," said he, "I dare say it may have been used afterwards for a windmill; but I am sure it was originally built as a baronial hall, some time during the middle ages. Afterwards it began to go to ruin; and then, I dare say, some miller fellow has taken possession of the keep, and torn off the turrets and battlements, and rigged up this roof with the beams, and thus turned it into a windmill." "O, well, you may be right," said David. "Of course it's impossible to tell." "O, but I'm sure of it," said Clive, positively. David laughed. "O, then," said he, "in that case, I've got nothing to say about it at all." In spite of his reiterated conviction in the baronial castle, Clive was unable to prevent an expression of disgust from being discernible on his fine face, and without another word, he turned to go down. David followed close after him. As Clive put his feet down on the nearest rung of the ladder, he was startled by a noise below. It came from the pile of fagots, and was of the most extraordinary character. It was a shuffling, scraping, growling, snapping noise; an indescribable medley of peculiar sounds. Clive instantly drew back his foot, as though he had trodden on a snake. "What's the matter?" cried David, in amazement. "Didn't you hear it?" "Hear what?" "Why, that noise!" "Noise?" "Yes." "What noise?" Clive's eyes opened wide, and he said in a low, agitated whisper,-- "Something's down there!" At this David's face turned pale. He knelt down at the opening, and bent his head over. The sounds, which had ceased for a moment, became once more audible. There was a quick, beating, rustling, rubbing noise among the fagots, and he could occasionally hear the rap of footfalls on the floor. It was too dark to see anything, for the narrow door was the only opening, and the end of the chamber where the fagots lay was wrapped in deep gloom. Clive knelt down too, and then both boys, kneeling there, listened eagerly and intently with all their ears. "What is it?" asked Clive. "I'm rare I don't know," said David, gloomily. "Is it a brigand?" whispered Clive, dismally. "I don't know, I'm sore," said poor David, who, in spite of his recent declaration of his belief that all brigands were humbugs, felt something like his old trepidation at Clive's suggestion. They listened a little longer.