The courtyard was littered with weeds that Kagig’s men had slashed down, and here and there a tree had found root room and forced its way up between the rough-hewn paving stones.  Animals had laired in the place, and had left their smell there together with an air of wilderness.  But now a new-old smell, and new-old sounds were awakening the past.  There were horses again in the stables, whose roof formed the fighting-platform behind the rampart of the outer wall.

Monty led the way to the old arched entrance of the keep, and pointed upward to a spot above the arch where some one had been scraping and scrubbing away the stains of time.  There, clean white now in the midst of rusty stonework, was a carved device—­shield-shaped—­two ships and two wheat-sheaves; and underneath on a scroll the motto in Latin—­Per terram et aquam—­By land and sea—­in token that the old Montdidiers held themselves willing to do duty on either element.  The same device and the same motto were on the gold signet ring on Monty’s little finger.

“What’s happening on top of the keep?” demanded Will.

Fred laughed aloud.  We could not see up from inside, for at least one of the stone floors remained intact.

“Can’t you guess?” demanded Fred.  “Didn’t I tell you the man has ’verted to Crusader days?”

But Monty explained.

“There’s an old stone socket up there that used to hold the flag-pole.  Two or three fellows have been kind enough to haul a tree up there, and they’re trimming it to fit.”

“If we were wise we’d hang you to it, Didums, and save you from a lousy Turkish jail!”

“Thank you, Fred,” Monty answered.  “There are capitulations still, I fancy.  No Turk can legally try me, or imprison me a minute.  I’m answerable to the British consul.”

“They’re fine, legal-minded sticklers for the rules, the Turks are!” Fred retorted.

“But we’ve a net laid for the Turks!” smiled Monty.

Fred shook his head.  Monty led the way toward stone steps, whose treads bad been worn into smooth hollows centuries before by the feet of men in armor.

Up above on the outer rampart we could see Kagig’s sentries outlined against the sky, protected against the chilly mountain air by goat-skin outer garments and pointed goat-skin hats.  We mounted the stone stair, holding to a baluster worn smooth by the rub of countless forgotten hands, as perfect yet as on the day when the masons pronounced it finished; and emerged on to a wide stone floor above the stables, guarded by a breast-high parapet pierced by slits for archers.

>From below the breathing of the pines came up to us, peculiarly audible in spite of the Titan roar of Jihun River.  Immediately below us was a ledge of forest-covered rock, and beyond that we could see sheer down the tree-draped flank of Beirut Dagh to the foaming water.  We leaned our elbows on the parapet, and stared in silence all in a row, stared at in turn by the more than half-suspicious sentries.