Three at Tortsentier

At Tortsentier there was very little daylight, because the trees about
it formed a thick wall. The branches of the pines tapped at the
windows on one side; on the other they linked arms with their
comrades, and so stood for a mile on all sides of the tower. Paths
there were none, nor ways to come by unless you were free of the
place. The winter storms moaned, lashed themselves above it, yet below
were hushed down to a long sighing. The quiet visitations of the snow,
the dripping of the autumn rains, the sun's force, the trap-bite of
the frost, or that new breath that comes stealing through woodlands in
spring, were all strangers alike to the carpet of brown needles about
Maulfry's hold. No birds ever sang there. Death and a great mystery,
the dark, air like a lake's at noon, kept fur and feather from
Tortsentier, and left Maulfry alone with what she had.

Within, it was a spacious place. A great hall ran the whole height
(although not the whole area) of it, having a gallery midway up whence
you gained what other chambers there were. Below the gallery were deep
alcoves hung with tapestry (of which Maulfry was a diligent worker),
and thickened with curtains; between every alcove hung trophies of
shields and arms. Mossy carpets, skins, and piled cushions were on the
floor; the place smelt of musk: it was lighted by coloured torches and
lamps, and warmed with braziers. It was by a spiral stair that you
found the gallery and doors of the other rooms, or as many of them as
it was fitting you should find. There were doors there which were no
doors at all unless occasion served. These rooms had windows; but the
hall had only a lantern in the roof, and its torches. From all this it
will appear that Isoult was a prisoner, since a prisoner you are if,
although you can go out, there is nowhere for you to go; if, further,
your hostess neither goes out herself nor gives you occasion to leave
her. Yet Maulfry made her guest elaborately free of the place.