Many Years Had Passed Away Since The Time Of Sam's Youthful Adventure,
And The Snows Of Many A Winter Had Grizzled The Knotty Wool Upon His
Head.
He perfectly recollected the circumstances, however, for he had
often been called upon to relate them, though in his version of the
story he differed in many points from Peechy Prauw; as is not
unfrequently the case with authentic historians.
As to the subsequent
researches of money-diggers, Sam knew nothing about them; they were
matters quite out of his line; neither did the cautious Wolfert care to
disturb his thoughts on that point. His only wish was to secure the old
fisherman as a pilot to the spot, and this was readily effected. The
long time that had intervened since his nocturnal adventure had effaced
all Sam's awe of the place, and the promise of a trifling reward roused
him at once from his sleep and his sunshine.
The tide was adverse to making the expedition by water, and Wolfert was
too impatient to get to the land of promise, to wait for its turning;
they set off, therefore, by land. A walk of four or five miles brought
them to the edge of a wood, which at that time covered the greater part
of the eastern side of the island. 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. 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.
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