That brought the matter to a crisis.  There were uneasy whispers of a curse on the mount, a tradition that no castle built there would ever be finished, an old custom of sacrificing some human being to be buried under the foundation of a castle for the pacifying of the ancient gods.  And all of this uncanny terror was somehow connected with a hill some distance away toward the forest-clad mountains, where a low brown-tiled cottage crouched like a toad, under a poplar whose leaves were ever twinkling in the sun.

“Gualtier,” queried Lady Philippa, her eye following his, “what is it about old Mother Izan?  The maids have been telling all sorts of foolish tales about her enchantments.  What has she been doing?”

The knight laughed, but not very mirthfully.  “Nothing whatever, in my opinion.  But I may as well tell you—­they say that she has overlooked the mount so that we shall never be able to finish this corner of the wall.  It is vexatious, because I meant that nook for your garden.  It is the only place that is sheltered from the wind and at the same time has sunshine and a good outlook.  But the wall has thrice been all but finished, and each time the stones have begun to sink and topple.  This time Howel the mason was nearly killed.  Of course, a feeble bent old woman who can hardly hobble ten rods cannot have undermined a wall at this distance.  That is absurd.  But the panic the men have got into is not.  That wall will have to be finished—­somehow.”

Lady Philippa looked at the tumbled masses of stone.  “It would be a charming place for roses,” she mused, and looked again at the cottage, where beside the door a gleam of water caught the light.  “That is the spring they call the Fairies’ Well.”

“Yes; it is one of the oldest wells in this part of England.  The water is pure as the sunlight, and never fails.  Hugh thinks it may be one of the places the heathen priests held sacred.  It is not so very long since the people worshiped pagan gods.”

The lady traced a pattern in the dust with the point of her slender shoe.  “I think,” she said, “that I will take the children and ride over to see Mother Izan.”

The knight made no objection, for the country was quiet, and he could see the party from the castle mount as they set forth, Lady Philippa on her black Arabian jennet, Eleanor and Roger on their forest ponies.

The children had had their own discussion about that wall the day before, and returned to it as they rode along the trail that led to Mother Izan’s cottage.  It was a longer way than it seemed from the height, for a marsh full of tall reeds almost encircled the hill on which the Fairies’ Well was, and the trail kept to the high moorland above.

“I do wonder what is the matter with the wall,” mused Eleanor.  “Do you suppose it can be bewitched, Roger?”