The Watch-tower

I sat one April in Provence on a small hill above an ancient town that
Goth and Vandal as yet have forborne to "bring up to date."

On the hill was an old worn castle with a watch-tower, and a well with
narrow steps and water in it still.

The watch-tower, staring South with neglected windows, faced a broad
valley full of the pleasant twilight and the hum of evening things: it
saw the fires of wanderers blink from the hills, beyond them the long
forest black with pines, one star appearing, and darkness settling
slowly down on Var.

Sitting there listening to the green frogs croaking, hearing far
voices clearly but all transmuted by evening, watching the windows in
the little town glimmering one by one, and seeing the gloaming dwindle
solemnly into night, a great many things fell from mind that seem
important by day, and evening in their place planted strange fancies.

Little winds had arisen and were whispering to and fro, it grew cold,
and I was about to descend the hill, when I heard a voice behind me
saying, "Beware, beware."

So much the voice appeared a part of the evening that I did not turn
round at first; it was like voices that one hears in sleep and thinks
to be of one's dream. And the word was monotonously repeated, in
French.

When I turned round I saw an old man with a horn. He had a white beard