The evening was
approaching, and the light falling dubiously among these places, gave a
melancholy tone to the scene, well calculated to foster any lurking
feeling of awe or superstition. The night-hawk, wheeling about in the
highest regions of the air, emitted his peevish, boding cry. The
woodpecker gave a lonely tap now and then on some hollow tree, and the
firebird,[3] as he streamed by them with his deep-red plumage, seemed
like some genius flitting about this region of mystery.
[Footnote 3: Orchard Oreole.]
They now came to an enclosure that had once been a garden. It extended
along the foot of a rocky ridge, but was little better than a
wilderness of weeds, with here and there a matted rose-bush, or a peach
or plum tree grown wild and ragged, and covered with moss. At the lower
end of the garden they passed a kind of vault in the side of the bank,
facing the water. It had the look of a root-house. The door, though
decayed, was still strong, and appeared to have been recently patched
up. Wolfert pushed it open. It gave a harsh grating upon its hinges,
and striking against something like a box, a rattling sound ensued, and
a skull rolled on the floor. Wolfert drew back shuddering, but was
reassured on being informed by Sam that this was a family vault
belonging to one of the old Dutch families that owned this estate; an
assertion which was corroborated by the sight of coffins of various
sizes piled within.
Pages:
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410