hus grasps and cries, and gazes, because he no longer fears
to waken by any sound he can utter--by any movement he can make. He
thought his love slept sweetly: he finds she is stone dead.

I looked with timorous joy towards a stately house: I saw a blackened
ruin.

No need to cower behind a gate-post, indeed!--to peep up at chamber
lattices, fearing life was astir behind them! No need to listen for
doors opening--to fancy steps on the pavement or the gravel-walk! The
lawn, the grounds were trodden and waste: the portal yawned void. The
front was, as I had once seen it in a dream, but a well-like wall, very
high and very fragile-looking, perforated with paneless windows: no roof,
no battlements, no chimneys--all had crashed in.

And there was the silence of death about it: the solitude of a lonesome
wild. No wonder that letters addressed to people here had never received
an answer: as well despatch epistles to a vault in a church aisle. The
grim blackness of the stones told by what fate the Hall had fallen--by
conflagration: but how kindled? What story belonged to this disaster?
What loss, besides mortar and marble and wood-work had followed upon it?
Had life been wrecked as well as property? If so, whose? Dreadful
question: there was no one here to answer it--not even dumb sign, mute
token.

In wandering round the shattered walls and through the devastated
interior, I gathered evidence that the calamity was not of late
occurrence. Winter snows, I thought, had drifted through that void arch,
winter rains beaten in at those hollow casements; for, amidst the
drenched piles of rubbish, spring had cherished vegetation: grass and
weed grew here and there between the stones and fallen rafters. And oh!
where meantime was the hapless owner of this wreck? In what land? Under
what auspices? My eye involuntarily wandered to the grey church tower
near the gates, and I asked, "Is he with Damer de Rochester, sharing the
shelter of his narrow marble house?"

Some answer must be had to these questions. I could find it nowhere but
at the inn, and thither, ere long, I returned. The host himself brought
my breakfast into the parlour. I requested him to shut the door and sit
down: I had some questions to ask him. But when he complied, I scarcely
knew how to begin; such horror had I of the possible answers. And yet
the spectacle of desolation I had just left prepared me in a measure for
a tale of misery. The host was