HOW A YOUNG SHEPHERD HAD A PERILOUS FLOCK.
Black was the mouth of Twynham Castle, though a pair of torches
burning at the further end of the gateway cast a red glare over
the outer bailey, and sent a dim, ruddy flicker through the
rough-hewn arch, rising and falling with fitful brightness. Over
the door the travellers could discern the escutcheon of the
Montacutes, a roebuck gules on a field argent, flanked on either
side by smaller shields which bore the red roses of the veteran
constable. As they passed over the drawbridge, Alleyne marked
the gleam of arms in the embrasures to right and left, and they
had scarce set foot upon the causeway ere a hoarse blare burst
from a bugle, and, with screech of hinge and clank of chain, the
ponderous bridge swung up into the air, drawn by unseen hands.
At the same instant the huge portcullis came rattling down from
above, and shut off the last fading light of day. Sir Nigel and
his lady walked on in deep talk, while a fat under-steward took
charge of the three comrades, and led them to the buttery, where
beef, bread, and beer were kept ever in readiness for the
wayfarer.
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