He felt his way along bravely for a few minutes, and more bravely still was forcing back his tears, when a sound caught his ears.  It was a cock’s crow, sharp and shrill, but yet sounding as if outside the place where he was.  Still it greatly encouraged Hugh, who continued to make his way on in the dark, much pleased to find that the farther he got the nearer and clearer sounded the crow, repeated every few seconds.  And at last he found himself at the end of the passage—­he knew it must be so, for in front of him the way was barred, and quite close to him now apparently, sounded the cock’s shrill call.  He pushed and pulled—­for some time in vain.  If there were a door at this end of the passage, as surely there must be—­who would make a passage and hang it so beautifully with lamps if it were to lead to nowhere?—­it was a door of which the handle was very difficult to find.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Hugh, half in despair, “what shall I do?”

“Kurroo—­kurroorulloo,” sounded the cock’s crow.  “Try again,” it seemed to say, encouragingly.  And at last Hugh’s hand came in contact with a little round knob, and as he touched it, all at once everything about him was lighted up again with the same clear, lovely light coming from the thousands of lamps down the long corridor behind him.  But Hugh never turned to look at them—­what he saw in front of him was so delightful and surprising.

The door had opened, Hugh found himself standing at the top of two or three steps, which apparently were the back approach to the strange long passage which he had entered from the tapestry room.  Outside it was light too, but not with the wonderful bright radiance that had streamed out from the castle at the other side.  Here it was just very soft, very clear moonlight.  There were trees before him—­almost it seemed as if he were standing at the entrance of a forest.  But, strange to say, they were not winter trees, such as he had left behind him in the garden of Jeanne’s house—­bare and leafless, or if covered at all, covered only with their Christmas dress of snow and icicles—­these trees were clothed with the loveliest foliage, fresh and green and feathery, which no winter’s storms or nipping frosts had ever come near to blight.  And in the little space between the door where Hugh stood and these wonderful trees was drawn up, as if awaiting him, the prettiest, queerest, most delicious little carriage that ever was seen.  It was open; the cushions with which it was lined were of rose-coloured plush—­not velvet, I think; at least if they were velvet, it was of some marvellous kind that couldn’t he rubbed the wrong way, that felt exquisitely smooth and soft whichever way you stroked it; the body of the carriage was shaped something like a cockle-shell; you could lie back in it so beautifully without cricking or straining your neck or shoulders in the least; and there was just room for two.  One of these two was already comfortably