He rode on towards the northern side, crossing a footbridge that spanned the river, and at last coming to a halt before the entrance tower.

Here again the moat was formed by the torrential waters of the mountain stream.
He bade his servant rouse the inmates, and Lanciotto hallooed in a voice that nature had made deep and powerful.

The echo of it went booming up to scare the birds on the hillside, but evoked no answer from the silent castle.
"They keep a zealous watch," laughed the Count.

"Again, Lanciotto." The man obeyed him, and again and again his deep voice rang out like a trumpet-call before sign was made from within that it had been heard.
At length, above the parapet of the tower appeared a stunted figure with head unkempt, as grotesque almost as any of the gargoyles beneath, and an owlish face peered at them from one of the crenels of the battlement, and demanded, in surly, croaking tones their business.

Instantly the Count recognised Peppe.
"Good morrow, fool," he bade him.
"You, my lord ?" exclaimed the jester.
"You sleep soundly at Roccaleone," quoth Francesco.