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.  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