Lower it came,
revealing grotesque gargoyles, flooding the crenellated battlements and
turning green the ivy and lichen that but a moment back had blackened the
stout, projecting buttresses. Thence it leapt to the ground, and drove
the shadow before it down the grassy slope, until it reached the stream
and sparkled on its foaming, tumbling waters, scattering a hundred
colours through the flying spray.
And all that time, until the sun had reached him and included him in the
picture it was awakening, the Count of Aquila sat in his saddle, with
thoughtful eyes uplifted to the fortress.
Then, Lanciotto following him, he walked his horse round the western
side, where the torrent was replaced by a smooth arm of water, for which
a cutting had been made to complete the isolation of the crag of
Roccaleone. But here, where the castle might more easily have become
vulnerable, a blank wall greeted him, broken by no more than a narrow
slit or two midway below the battlements. He rode on towards the
northern side, crossing a footbridge that spanned the river, and at last
coming to a halt before the entrance tower. Here again the moat was
formed by the torrential waters of the mountain stream.
He bade his servant rouse the inmates, and Lanciotto hallooed in a voice
that nature had made deep and powerful. The echo of it went booming up
to scare the birds on the hillside, but evoked no answer from the silent
castle.
"They keep a zealous watch," laughed the Count.
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