The old keep of Huntingtower stood some three hundred yards from the edge of the cliffs, a gnarled wood of hazels and oaks protecting it from the sea-winds. It was still in fair preservation¹, having till twenty years before been an adjunct of the house of Dalquharter, and used as kitchen, buttery and servants' quarters. There had been residential² wings attached, dating from the mid-eighteenth century, but these had been pulled down and used for the foundations of the new mansion³. Now it stood a lonely shell, its three storeys, each a single great room connected by a spiral stone staircase, being dedicated⁴ to lumber⁵ and the storage of produce. But it was dry and intact, its massive oak doors defied any weapon short of artillery⁶, its narrow unglazed windows would scarcely have admitted a cat—a place portentously⁷ strong, gloomy, but yet habitable.

 

Dougal opened the main door with a massy key. "The lassie fund it," he whispered to Dickson, "somewhere about the kitchen—and I guessed it was the key o' this castle. I was thinkin' that if things got ower hot it would be a good plan to flit here. Change our base, like." The Chieftain's occasional studies in war had trained his tongue to a military jargon⁸.[Pg 172]

 

In the ground room lay a fine assortment⁹ of oddments, including old bedsteads and servants' furniture, and what looked like ancient discarded deer-skin rugs. Dust lay thick over everything, and they heard the scurry¹¹ of rats. A

分享到：