From Tennyson's poem, 'Maude: Part I':
I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood;
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath,
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood,
An Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers 'Death.'
The scene of a long-ago tragedy, still haunted by an unpleasant atmosphere of horror and despair. Who is she? Why does she come here? She is being watched. Can you see the almost-hidden eyes?