Amid yea dismay and bewilderment,e'en as yea flee, yea think of the rest of yea travelling party and wonder if they art awaiting yea at the place of rendezvous, or if the guides and companions hath also been enticed and led astray in a realm of damnable unrealities. Yea renew yea prayers and implore yea guardian gods for their safety as well as yea own.
The forest through which yea run tis a maze of bafflement and eerieness. There art no land marks,there tis nary a track of animals nor men;and the swart cypresses and sere autumnal trees grow thicker and thicker as if some malovent will were marshalling them against yea progress. The boughs art like implacable arms that strike to retard yea;yea could hath sworn that yea felt them twine about yea with the strength and suppleness of living things. Yea fight them,insanely,desperately,and seem to hear a crackling of infernal laughter in their twigs as yea fight. At last,with a sigh of relief,yea break through into a sort of trail. Along this trail, in the mad hope of eventual escape, yea run like one whom a fiend pursues;and after a short interval yea come again to the shores of the tarn,above whose motionless water the high and hoary turrets of that time-forgotten castle art still dormant. Again, yea turn and flee,Traveller;and once more,after similar wanderings and like struggles, yea come back to the inevitable tarn.
With a leaden sinking of yea heart,as into some ultimate slough of despair and horror,yea resign yeaself and make no more effort to escape. Thy very will tis benumbed,tis crushed down as by the incumbence of a superior volition that will nae permit yea puny recalcitrance. Yea art unable to resist when a stong and hateful compulsion draws yea footsteps along the margent of the tarn toward the looming castle.
When yea come nearer, yea see that the edifice 'tis surrounded by a moat whose waters art stagnant as those of the lake,and art mantled with the iridescent scum of corruption. The drawbridge 'tis down and the gates are open, as if to receive an expected guest: yea, Traveller. But still there tis no sign of human occupancy;and the walls of the great grey building art silent as those of a sepulcher. And more tomb-like e'en than the rest 'tis the square overtowering bulk of the mighty donjon.
Impelled by the same Power that hadst drawn yea along the lakeshore, yea cross the drawbridge andpass beneath the frowning barbican into a silent,vacant courtyard. Barred windows look blankly down upon yea, Traveller;at the opposite end of the court a door stands mysteriously open revealing a dark hall.
As yea approach the doorway, yea see that a man 'tis standing on the threshold;though a moment previous yea could hath sworn that 'tis untenanted by any visible form.
