She entered the house and brought out a book, with which she established herself to read.

She had often longed to sit there in the afternoon and watch the sun creeping across the flags, pursued by the shadow, till each small bit of moss and blade of grass had received its daily portion of warmth.
For though the place had been cleared and weeded, the tiny green things still grew in the chinks of the pavement.

In the middle of the court was a well with a cover and yoke of old-fashioned twisted iron and a pulley to draw the water.

The air was bright and fresh outside the castle, but the reverberating rays of the sun made the quiet courtyard warm and still.
Sick with her daily torture of mind the fair, pale girl rested her, at last, and dreaming of liberty drew strength from the soft stillness.
The book fell on her lap, her head leaned back against the rough stones of the wall, and gradually, as she watched from beneath her half-closed lids the play of the stealing sunlight, she fell into a sweet sleep.
She was soon disturbed by that indescribable ununeasiness that creeps through our dreams when we are asleep in the presence of danger.

A weird horror possesses us, and makes the objects in the dream appear unnatural.