Situated on a level track of land at the crossing of three roads, its
spacious front, rude and unpainted as it was, presented every
appearance of an inn, but from its moss-grown chimneys no smoke
arose, nor could I detect any sign of life in its shutterless windows
and closed doors, across which shivered the dark shadow of the one
gaunt and aged pine, that stood like a guard beside its tumbled-down
porch.
Mr. Blake seemed to have been struck by the same fact concerning its
loneliness, for hurriedly replacing his pistol in his breast pocket,
he rode slowly forward. I instantly conceived the plan of striking
across the belt of underbrush that separated me from this old
dwelling, and by taking my stand opposite its front, intercept a view
of Mr. Blake as he approached. Hastily dismounting, therefore, I led
my horse into the bushes and tied her to a tree, proceeding to carry
out my plan on foot. I was so far successful as to arrive at the
further edge of the wood, which was thick enough to conceal my
presence without being too dense to obstruct my vision, just as Mr.
Blake passed on his way to this solitary dwelling. He was looking
very anxious, but determined. Turning my eyes from him, I took another
glance at the house, which by this movement I had brought directly
before me.
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