I was about to ask the reason of this halt when a ray of his lantern fell on a wall of masonry; and with a start almost laughable I knew we had arrived.  To come to an entirely strange house at night is an experience which holds some taste of mystery even for the oldest campaigner; but I have never in my life received such a shock as this building gave me—­naked, unlit, presented to me out of a darkness in which I had imagined a steep mountain scaur dotted with dwarfed trees—­a sudden abomination of desolation standing, like the prophet’s, where it ought not.  No light showed on the side where we stood—­the side over the ravine; only one pointed turret stood out against the faint moonlight glow in the upper sky:  but feeling our way around the gaunt side of the building, we came to a back court-yard and two windows lit.  Our host whistled, and helped me to dismount.

In an angle of the court a creaking door opened.  A woman’s voice cried, “That will be be you, Ardlaugh, and none too early!  The minister—­”

She broke off, catching sight of us.  Our host stepped hastily to the door and began a whispered conversation.  We could hear that she was protesting, and began to feel awkward enough.  But whatever her objections were, her master cut them short.

“Come in, sirs,” he invited us:  “I warned you that the fare would be hard, but I repeat that you are welcome.”

To our surprise and, I must own, our amusement, the woman caught up his words with new protestations, uttered this time at the top of her voice.

“The fare hard?  Well, it might not please folks accustomed to city feasts; but Ardlaugh was not yet without a joint of venison in the larder and a bottle of wine, maybe two, maybe three, for any guest its master chose to make welcome.  It was ’an ill bird that ’filed his own nest’”—­with more to this effect, which our host tried in vain to interrupt.

“Then I will lead you to your rooms,” he said, turning to us as soon as she paused to draw breath.

“Indeed, Ardlaugh, you will do nothing of the kind.”  She ran into the kitchen, and returned holding high a lighted torch—­a grey-haired woman with traces of past comeliness, overlaid now by an air of worry, almost of fear.  But her manner showed only a defiant pride as she led us up the uncarpeted stairs, past old portraits sagging and rotting in their frames, through bleak corridors, where the windows were patched and the plastered walls discoloured by fungus.  Once only she halted.  “It will be a long way to your appartments.  A grand house!” She had faced round on us, and her eyes seemed to ask a question of ours.  “I have known it filled,” she added—­“filled with guests, and the drink and fiddles never stopping for a week.  You will see it better to-morrow.  A grand house!”