weather. There were open casements, through which one might catch a
glimpse of comfort within, and again there were narrow slits, deeply
sunk into thick walls, through which fancy might expect to hear the moan
of some prisoner in a dungeon.

As it swept round the Abbey the stream broadened out, and its current
became almost imperceptible. On one side the bank was comparatively low,
but on the Abbey side a stone wall had been built up from the water.
Above this was a broad terrace, flanked by the top of the wall, which
rose some three or four feet above it, and into which seats had been cut
at intervals. This terrace ran round three sides of the Abbey, and was
mostly of stone flags, worn and green with age, but in some places there
were stretches of trimly-kept grass. Two stone bridges arched and dipped
from the terrace to the opposite bank of the stream. Wonderful vistas of
the surrounding country were to be seen from the vantage ground of the
terrace; here a peep through a sylvan glade to the blue haze of the
hills beyond; there a glimpse of the roofs of the village of Aylingford,
a mile away; and again a deep, downward view into dark woods, where
mystery seemed to dwell, and perhaps fear, and out of which came the
sound of running and of falling water.

It was not difficult to believe in the legends which the simple country
folk told of Aylingford, and they were many. Had some old monk come
suddenly out of the wood, over the bridge, and walked in meditation
along the terrace, he would hardly have looked strange or out of place
so long as a bevy of Sir John's visitors had not chanced to meet him. It
seemed almost natural that when the night was still the echoes of old
prayer and chant should still be heard, as folk said they were. Sir John
himself had heard such sounds, so he affirmed, and would not have his
belief explained away by the fact that the wind found much to make music