He saw a black figure enter at the other end--it was Father Omehr.
"It rains too hard at present to venture out," said the priest, in passing, and he re-entered the hall to wait till the gust had exhausted itself.
Gilbert wandered along the arched gallery without any definite aim, yet expecting to see the Lady Margaret start from some secret niche.
Suddenly his cloak was pulled so sharply, that he grasped his sword, which he had been prudent enough to conceal beneath the ample folds of his gown.

As he turned, he saw a woman with her finger on her lips, but it was not the Lady Margaret: that shrivelled face and curved back belonged to Linda.

The old neif, after thus enjoining silence, made a gesture for the youth to follow, and shuffled noiselessly before him.
Gilbert's heart was well-nigh bursting with anxiety as they strode along.

When they reached the point where the corridor branched off into many smaller passages, Linda entered one that opened through a sharp-arched door upon the top of a battlemented tower.

The youth felt relieved by the cold, damp wind that drove through the aperture against his burning cheeks.