the trap. Or, if he set his mill agoing to its
own melancholy creaking music, and thrust
it—the body—behind the mill-stones to be
ground up and crunched. Horrible!

Eye-lids drooping yet more wearily; logs
glowing fiercely; forked shadows leaping
spasmodically as before. Setting aside
Grindoff for a moment, I inclined to believe
that the wicked old parents of the Fatal
Curiosity must have lived here up in this
grim Dutch mill.

Looking out from the rude cabin windows
it seems to me that it has suddenly grown to
be the evening of a long day's travel, and
that afar off at the head of the pass I can see
the two figures toiling along. The young
man looks back: he has on a scarlet foraging
cap with a blue military cloak.

"Courage, friend," he calls to the grey
sergeant, lagging a little behind him; "we
shall soon be home;" and he sings—

        Home to the mountain chalet,
                     By the river, on the river;
        Where golden-haired Mary is spinning,
        Where golden-haired Mary is singing,
                     By the river, on the river.

And as they both turn round a rock, the
darkness of evening seems to gather fast, and
the lines and colouring of the great Salvator
crags quiver unsteadily; fading off eventually
into the red logs of the old Ferry-house,
with the fire flickering up as before, the
forked shapes dancing galvanically as before,
and I myself sitting before the fire with my
head sunk down upon my chest.

It was curious how I had come by that
notion of the young man and the grey
sergeant. Most likely it was Barbou and his
wars of the empire which had first set it
a-going, bringing with it floating notions of
the old guard and grand army, and furlough:
all jumbled together during that long
night's travel. But the young man in the
scarlet foraging cap, chanting with such light
heart of his golden-haired Marie, far away in
some sunny country where are no rough
blasts and horrid gorges. Whence had I
gotten him? Somewhere on the road;
perhaps a stage or so from Moulines, and they
were the sweetest notes I ever heard. The
Reverend Tristram Sterne looking from his
chaise windows, said so once. Sentimental
journey that is—dozing again for a certainty
—I should keep awake. He might have
been journeying home from the great wars in
Algeria, having run many risks and passed
through every hardship: he might have come
across the sea, struggling with terrible storms
and tempest, striving to get home with all
speed to that green spot where Little
Constancy, long expecting and sitting up of
nights, would be waiting wearily. Bound up
solemnly to be back against a great festival
day; and so from the high cabin window I
look out for him again and for the grey
sergeant. Making him out at length, still
speeding on, but without the grey sergeant,
who will come later. Still he sings—

          Home to the mountain chalet,
                      By the river, on the river, &c.

And then he turns aside into a path through
a thick jungle, seemingly along a river-bank,
for I can catch the roar of waters hard by;
altogether I should know something of that
way—a tree here and rock there, having
something familiar in the look. I must have come
by that road once, and that, not long since,
which becomes positive. Certainly, as the
road widens apace, and the jungle thickens,
and the roar comes nearer, a little to one side
comes into view a dark mass. The old log
Ferry-house, it must be, where he halts and
knocks, for he is very weary, and would fain
rest until the grey sergeant should come up.
The door closes behind him and I see him no
more.

No more, that is, until looking round the
log-cabin, at the heap in the corner, at the
great sea-chest, and at those curious blocks
and pullies up high, and at the trap (or what
looks like a trap) opening just under them, I
begin to speculate what they can have done
with him. Blocks, pullies, and trap-opening
in conjunction. Suggestive of cruel extremity
for the young soldier, alone, and the prey of
Clou and the Tigresse. If, now, there was a
rope reefed through the pulley, and the trap
lifted, then it might be swung down lightly
to the river below, and so be swept away, and
never heard of more; and the spoils—the
Algerian money won by hard fighting, the
scarlet foraging-cap, the blue cloak with its
fur,—they might have been put by hastily,
and be lying, at this instant, in the great sea-
chest.

Either the door slammed or a log fell from
the fire, for I started suddenly, and the red
walls of the log-cabin were again quivering
indistinctly under spasmodic light that came
down the fire as before, settling down in
steady shape and substance. Block and
pullies as before, trap as before, cabin-windows
as before, great sea-chest——No, the great
sea-chest is not as before; for, as I can make
it out in its dark corner, the lid is raised,
and there is a dark and dwarfish figure
stooping over and half buried in it. Clou it
must be; for I could hear him muttering
strange oaths, his head being still deep in the
chest. Presently there was a step behind me
and the Tigresse came creeping over the floor,
lifting her feet stealthily, like a cat. Coming
behind him she took hold of his collar with
her claws, drew him back out of the chest.
Then their two horrid faces came close together,
lit up by sudden flashes of the fire, leering
distrustfully at me. Then they whispered
and snarled, and showed their teeth at one
another, and the Tigresse took from under her
arm something rolled up, which they spread
out between them—something that looked
like a large blue cloak of many folds, bordered