Fulk of the Forest had taken the way towards Witch’s Cross, with the full moon shining like a silver buckler behind him, to find himself standing at gaze among the yews of the Black Gill. Straight before him stretched a black aisle pillared and arched with huge yews. The aisle ended, like the choir of a church, in a great woodland window where the full moon hung, one yellow rim touching a flurry of clouds. Fulk had drawn aside against the trunk of a tree, lean, alert, shadowy, conscious of something stirring away yonder in the glooms.…
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