However, being here, I ascend the second acclivity.  The grass stems—­the grey beard of the hill—­sway in a mass close to my stooping face.  The dead heads of these various grasses—­fescues, fox-tails, and ryes—­bob and twitch as if pulled by a string underground.  From a few thistles a whistling proceeds; and even the moss speaks, in its humble way, under the stress of the blast.

That the summit of the second line of defence has been gained is suddenly made known by a contrasting wind from a new quarter, coming over with the curve of a cascade.  These novel gusts raise a sound from the whole camp or castle, playing upon it bodily as upon a harp.  It is with some difficulty that a foothold can be preserved under their sweep.  Looking aloft for a moment I perceive that the sky is much more overcast than it has been hitherto, and in a few instants a dead lull in what is now a gale ensues with almost preternatural abruptness.  I take advantage of this to sidle down the second counterscarp, but by the time the ditch is reached the lull reveals itself to be but the precursor of a storm.  It begins with a heave of the whole atmosphere, like the sigh of a weary strong man on turning to re-commence unusual exertion, just as I stand here in the second fosse.  That which now radiates from the sky upon the scene is not so much light as vaporous phosphorescence.

The wind, quickening, abandons the natural direction it has pursued on the open upland, and takes the course of the gorge’s length, rushing along therein helter-skelter, and carrying thick rain upon its back.  The rain is followed by hailstones which fly through the defile in battalions—­rolling, hopping, ricochetting, snapping, clattering down the shelving banks in an undefinable haze of confusion.  The earthen sides of the fosse seem to quiver under the drenching onset, though it is practically no more to them than the blows of Thor upon the giant of Jotun-land.  It is impossible to proceed further till the storm somewhat abates, and I draw up behind a spur of the inner scarp, where possibly a barricade stood two thousand years ago; and thus await events.

* * * * *

The roar of the storm can be heard travelling the complete circuit of the castle—­a measured mile—­coming round at intervals like a circumambulating column of infantry.  Doubtless such a column has passed this way in its time, but the only columns which enter in these latter days are the columns of sheep and oxen that are sometimes seen here now; while the only semblance of heroic voices heard are the utterances of such, and of the many winds which make their passage through the ravines.