Explore "A Monk of Cruta" by E. Phillips Oppenheim on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was a long, steep ascent, hewn out of the solid rock; but at last Paul stood before the great gates of the castle, and paused to take breath. Hundreds of feet below him his yacht was riding at anchor, looking like a toy vessel upon a painted sea, and a little group of scattered lights showed him where the hamlet lay. Before him was the stern, massive front of the castle, wrapped in profound gloom, but standing out in clear, ponderous outline against the starlit sky. There seemed to be no light from any part of it, and the great iron gates leading into the courtyard were closed. Nor was there any sound at all, not even the barking of a dog. It was like a dwelling of the dead.
A great, rusty bell-chain hung by the side of the gate, and as there seemed to be no other means of communication with the interior, Paul pulled it vigorously. Its hoarse echoes had scarcely died away before several rough-looking islanders, carrying flaring oil lamps, trooped into the courtyard from the rear of the building, and one of them, drawing the bolts, threw open the gates.