To the west there was a wide valley. Far away, great mountains rose up, peak after peak, of steep rock, with mountain ash growing there, trees whose roots clung in cracks and crevices in the stone. This was clearly a part of the castle occupied by the ladies in the old days, for the furniture looked more comfortable than any I had seen in the castle before.

The windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight flooded in through the diamond panes. It was so bright that I could even see colours, but the light was soft enough to hide the dust which lay over everything. The moonlight also hid some of the damage done by time and moths.

My lamp seemed to be of little use in the brilliant moonlight, but I was glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in the place which chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better than living alone in my rooms. I had started to hate my rooms because the Count was often there. Now I tried for a moment to steady my nerves, and I found a soft quietude come over me.

Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat. Perhaps she wrote with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love letter, where I sit writing in my diary in shorthand all that has happened since the last time I opened it. It is the nineteenth century now. And yet, somehow I feel that the old centuries had, and still have, powers of their own which these modern times cannot kill.