As we approached the castle wall, the storm grew worse. The slanting
rain and powerful wind now made speech all but impossible. We bent our
heads and staggered upward. When the wall finally loomed in front of us, I was amazed at its height
and thickness. It had been constructed, obviously, to withstand the
best siege guns and battering rams which its early enemies could bring
to bear on it. As we crossed a massive timbered drawbridge, I peered down into the
black ditch of a moat but I could not be sure whether there was water
in it. A low arched gateway gave access through the wall to an inner
cobblestoned courtyard. This courtyard was entirely empty, save for
rivulets of rushing water. Crossing the cobblestones with swift strides, the Factor led me to
another arched gateway in yet another wall. Inside was a second smaller
yard and beyond spread the ivy-clutched base of the ancient keep itself. Traversing a darkened stone-flagged passage, we found ourselves facing
a ponderous door, age-blackened oak reinforced with pitted bands of
iron. The Factor flung open this door and there before us was the great
hall of the castle. Four long hand-hewn tables with their accompanying benches stretched
almost the entire length of the hall. Metal torch brackets, stained
with age, were affixed to sculptured stone columns which supported the
roof. Ranged around the walls were suits of armor, heraldic shields,
halberds, pikes and banners, the accumulated trophies and prizes of
bloody centuries when each castle was almost a kingdom unto itself. In
flickering candlelight, which appeared to be the only illumination, the
grim array was eerily impressive. William Cowath waved a hand. "The holders of Chilton lived by the sword
for many centuries." Walking the length of the great hall, he entered another dim
passageway. I followed silently. As we strode along, he spoke in a subdued voice. "Frederick, the young
heir, does not enjoy robust health. The shock of his father's death was
severe--and he dreads tonight's ordeal, which he knows must come." Stopping before a wooden door embellished with carved fleurs-de-lis
and metal scrollwork, he gave me a shadowed, enigmatic glance and then
knocked. Someone inquired who was there and he identified himself. Presently a
heavy bolt was lifted and the door opened. If the Chilton-Paynes had been stubborn fighters in their day, the
warrior blood appeared to have become considerably diluted in the veins
of Frederick, the young heir and now Thirteenth Earl. I saw before me a
thin, pale-complexioned young man whose dark sunken eyes looked haunted
and fearful. His dress was both theatrical and anachronistic: a dark
green velvet coat and trousers, a green satin waist-band, flounces of
white lace at neck and wrists. He beckoned us in, as if with reluctance, and closed the door. The
walls of the small room were entirely covered with tapestries depicting
the hunt or medieval battle scenes. A draft of air from a window or
other aperture made them undulate constantly; they seemed to have a
disturbing life of their own. In one corner of the room there was an
antique canopy bed; in another a large writing table with an agate lamp. After a brief introduction, which included an explanation of how I came
to be accompanying them, the Factor inquired if his Lordship was ready
to visit the chamber. Although he was wan in any case, Earl Frederick's face now lost every
last trace of color. He nodded, however, and preceded us into the
passage. William Cowath led the way; the Earl followed him; and I brought up the
rear. At the far end of the passage, the Factor opened the door of a
cobwebbed supply room. Here he secured candles, chisels, a pick and a
sledgehammer. After packing these into a leather bag which he slung
over one shoulder, he picked up a faggot torch which lay on one of
the shelves in the room. He lit this, waited while it flared into a
steady flame. Satisfied with this illumination, he closed the room and
beckoned for us to continue after him. Nearby was a descending spiral of stone steps. Lifting his torch, the
Factor started down. We trailed after him wordlessly. There must have been fifty steps in that long downward spiral. As we
descended, the stones became wet and cold; the air, too, grew colder,
but the cold was not of the type that refreshes. It was too laden with
the smell of mould and dampness. At the bottom of the steps we faced a tunnel, pitch-black and silent. The Factor raised his torch. "Chilton Castle is Norman but is said to
have been reared over a Saxon ruin. It is believed that the passageways
in these depths were constructed by the Saxons." He peered, frowning,
into the tunnel. "Or by some still earlier folk." He hesitated briefly, and I thought he was listening. Then, glancing
round at us, he proceeded down the passage. I walked after the Earl, shivering. The dead, icy air seemed to pierce
to the pith of my bones. The stones underfoot grew slick with a film of
slime. I longed for more light, but there was none save that cast by
the flickering, bobbing torch of the Factor. Partway down the passage he paused and again I sensed that he was
listening. The silence seemed absolute however, and we went on. The end of the passage brought us to more descending steps. We went
down some fifteen and entered another tunnel which appeared to have
been cut out of the solid rock on which the castle had been reared. White-crusted nitre clung to the walls. The reek of mould was intense. The icy air was fetid with some other odor which I found peculiarly
repellent, though I could not name it. At last the Factor stopped, lifted his torch and slid the leather bag
from his shoulder. I saw that we stood before a wall made of some kind of building stone. Though damp and stained with nitre, it was obviously of much more
recent construction than anything we had previously encountered. Glancing round at us, William Cowath handed me the torch. "Keep a good
hold on it, if you please. I have candles, but--"

Leaving the sentence unfinished, he drew the pick from his sling bag
and began an assault on the wall. The barrier was solid enough, but
after he had worked a hole in it, he took up the sledgehammer and
quicker progress was made. Once I offered to take up the sledge while
he held the torch but he only shook his head and went on with his work
of demolition. All this time the young Earl had not spoken a word. As I looked at his
tense white face, I felt sorry for him, in spite of my own mounting
trepidation. Abruptly there was silence as the Factor lowered the sledgehammer. I
saw that a good two feet of the lower wall remained. William Cowath bent to inspect it. "Strong enough," he commented
cryptically. "I will leave that to build on. We can step over it." For a full minute he stood looking silently into the blackness beyond. Finally, shouldering his bag, he took the torch from my hand and
stepped over the ragged base of the wall. We followed suit.