It was just beyond the pleasant
region of Bloomen-dael. Here they struck into a long lane, straggling
among trees and bushes, very much overgrown with weeds and mullein
stalks as if but seldom used, and so completely overshadowed as to
enjoy but a kind of twilight. Wild vines entangled the trees and
flaunted in their faces; brambles and briars caught their clothes as
they passed; the garter-snake glided across their path; the spotted
toad hopped and waddled before them, and the restless cat-bird mewed at
them from every thicket. Had Wolfert Webber been deeply read in
romantic legend he might have fancied himself entering upon forbidden,
enchanted ground; or that these were some of the guardians set to keep
a watch upon buried treasure. As it was, the loneliness of the place,
and the wild stories connected with it, had their effect upon his mind.
On reaching the lower end of the lane they found themselves near the
shore of the Sound, in a kind of amphitheatre, surrounded by forest
tree. The area had once been a grass-plot, but was now shagged with
briars and rank weeds. At one end, and just on the river bank, was a
ruined building, little better than a heap of rubbish, with a stack of
chimneys rising like a solitary tower out of the centre. The current of
the Sound rushed along just below it, with wildly-grown trees drooping
their branches into its waves.
Wolfert had not a doubt that this was the haunted house of father
red-cap, and called to mind the story of Peechy Prauw.
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