Menfreya in the Morning [antikvár]

1 To see Menfreya at its best was to see it in the morning. I discovered this for the first time at dawn in the house on No Man's Island, when away to the east the scarlet-stained clouds were throwing a pinkish sheen on the sea, and the water which lapped about the island was like pearl-gray rippled silk. The morning seemed more peaceful because of the night of fear through which I had passed, the scene more delightful because of my nightmares. As I stood at the open window, the sea and the mainland before me, with Menfreya standing on the cliff top, I felt as elated by all that beauty as by the fact that I had come safely through the night. The house was like a castle with its turrets, buttresses and machicolated towers—a landmark to sailors, who would know where they were when they saw that pile of ancient stones. They could be silver-gray at noon when the sun picked out sharp flints in the walls and made them glitter like diamonds; but never did Menfreya look so splendid as when touched with the rosy glow of sunrise. Menfreya had been the home of the Menfreys for centuries. I had secretly christened them the Magic Menfreys because that was how they seemed to me—different from ordinary people, striking in appearance, strong, vital people. I had heard them called the Wild Menfreys, and according to A'Lee—the butler at Chough Towers— they were not only wild but wicked. He had tales to tell of the present Sir Endelion. The Menfreys had names which seemed strange to me but not, apparently, to Cornishmen, for these names