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. Sam had been familiar with all these scenes when a
boy, and now knew that he could not be far from the place of which they
were in quest.

They now made their way to the water's edge, scrambling along ledges of
rocks, and having often to hold by shrubs and grape-vines to avoid
slipping into the deep and hurried stream. At length they came to a
small cove, or rather indent of the shore. It was protected by steep
rocks and overshadowed by a thick copse of oaks and chestnuts, so as to
be sheltered and almost concealed. The beach sloped gradually within
the cove, but the current swept deep and black and rapid along its
jutting points. Sam paused; raised his remnant of a hat, and scratched
his grizzled poll for a moment, as he regarded this nook: then suddenly
clapping his hands, he stepped exultingly forward, and pointing to a
large iron ring, stapled firmly in the rock, just where a broad shelve
of stone furnished a commodious landing-place. It was the very spot
where the red-caps had landed. Years had changed the more perishable
features of the scene; but rock and iron yield slowly to the influence
of time. On looking more narrowly, Wolfert remarked three crosses cut
in the