MALCOLM stood with his back to the castle， pacing<br >uneasily and keeping an eye on the road where it curved<br >up from the village~f Knaresborough.<br > The castle rose :;up behind him， bleak and broken， a<br >snaggled-toothed retie etched against the leaden sky of a<br >wet April dawn. Its grim dungeons were padlocked now<br >behind heavy wooden doors， its history reduced to a line<br >or two in the British tourist guides. The fortress stood<br > silent， harmless， a brooding shadow of terror dimly<br >remembered across the boundaries of time. But to Mal-<br > colm， standing there alone in the fading darkness， with<br > mist rising wet and cold ~against his face， the ghosts of<br > Knaresborough Castle were strangely alive. Not tliat he<br > was seeing things---there were no ghostly images mount-<br >hag the battlements， no mut<br >chains in his mind s eye， noth<br >just a feeling he had， a sense<br >ken walls and empty， staring<br >peering at him out of the past.<br > ~And so he turned to face<br > sptrlts<br >ng as gr<br >)f myste<br >window，，<br >the present， keeping an eye<br ><br >