Such spots are the last proud and melancholy trace of Norman knighthood and old romance left to the laughing landscapes of cultivated England.

They always throw something of shadow and solemn gloom upon minds that feels their associations, like that which belongs to some ancient and holy edifice.

They are the cathedral aisles of Nature with their darkened vistas, and columned trunks, and arches of mighty foliage.

But in ordinary times the gloom is pleasing, and more delightful than all the cheerful lawns and sunny slopes of the modern taste.

_Now_ to Maltravers it was ominous and oppressive: the darkness of death seemed brooding in every shadow, and its warning voice moaning in every breeze.
The wheels stopped again.