The old stones, the stagnant water of the ditch surrounding the donjon, the bleak ground strewn with the dead leaves, the dark, skeleton-like outlines of the trees, all contributed to give to the desolate place, now filled with its awful mystery, a most funereal aspect.

As we passed round the donjon, we met the Green Man, the forest-keeper, who did not greet us, but walked by as if we had not existed.

He was looking just as I had formerly seen him through the window of the Donjon Inn.

He had still his fowling-piece slung at his back, his pipe was in his mouth, and his eye-glasses on his nose.
"An odd kind of fish!" Rouletabille said to me, in a low tone.
"Have you spoken to him ?" I asked.
"Yes, but I could get nothing out of him.

His only answers are grunts and shrugs of the shoulders.