First upon leaving Paris they had gone on to the Castle of Champtoce, and from beneath had surveyed the noble range of battlements crowning the heights above the broad, poplar-guarded levels of the Loire.  The Chateau de Thouars also they had seen, a small white-gabled house, most like a Scottish baron’s tower, which the Marshal de Retz possessed in virtue of his neglected wife Katherine.  In it her sister the Lady Sybilla had been born.  Solitary and tenantless, save for a couple of guards and their uncovenanted womenkind, it looked down on its green island meadows, while on the horizon hung the smoke of the wood fires lit at morn and eve by the good wives of Nantes.

To that place the three had next journeyed and had there beheld the great Hotel de Suze, set like an enemy’s fortress in the midst of the turbulent city, over against the Castle of the King.  But the Hotel, though held like a place of arms, was untenanted by the marshal, his retinue, or the lost Scottish maids.

Next they found the strong Castle of Tiffauges, above the green and rippling waters of the Sevres, void also as the others.  No light gleamed out of that window of sinister repute, high up in the cliff-like wall, from which strange shapes were reported to look forth even at deep midnoon.

North, south, and east the three had ridden through the country of Retz.  There remained but Machecoul, more remote and also darker in repute than any of the other dwelling-places of Gilles de Retz.  As they rode westward towards it, they became day by day more conscious of the darkening down of the atmosphere of fear and suspicion, which, murky and lowering, overhung all that fair land of southern Brittany.

The vast pine forests from which rose the lonely towers of this the marshal’s most remote castle could now be seen, serrated darkly against the broad belt of the sky.  The sombre blackness of their spreading branches, the yet blacker darkness where the gaps between their red trunks showed a way into the wood, increased the gloom of the weary travellers.  Yet they rode on, Sholto eagerly, Malise grimly, and the Lord James with the dogged resignation of a good knight who may be depended on to see an adventure through, however irksome it may be proving.

James of Avondale thought within himself that the others had greater interests in the quest than he—­the younger MacKim having at stake the honour of his sweetheart Maud, the elder the life of his young mistress, the last of the Galloway house of Douglas.

Yet it was with that jolly heart of his beating strong and loyal under his brown palmer’s coat, that James Douglas rode towards Machecoul, only whistling low to himself and wishing that something would happen to break the monotony of their journey.

Nor had he long to wait.  For just as the sun was setting they rode all three of them abreast into the little hamlet of Saint Philbert, and saw the sullen waters of the Etang de Grande Lieu spread marshy and brackish as far as the eye could reach, edged by peat bogs and overhung perilously by gloomy pines nodding over pools blacker than scrivener’s ink.