Passing hastily through what appeared to be a sort
of rude parlor, I stepped into the kitchen and tried one of the
windows. Finding I could easily lift it from the inside, I drew my
breath with ease for the first time since I had alighted among the
broken glass above, and turning back, deliberately opened the door of
the kitchen stove, and looked in. As I half expected, I found a pile
of partly charred rags, showing where the wretches had burned their
prison clothing, and proceeding further, picked up from the ashes a
ring which whether or not they were conscious of having attempted to
destroy in this way I cannot say, but which I thankfully put in my
pocket against the day it might be required as proof.
Discerning nothing more in that quarter inviting interest, I asked
myself if I had nerve to descend into the cellar. Finally concluding
that that was more than could be expected from any man in my position,
I gave one look of farewell to the damp and desolate walls about me,
then with a breath of relief jumped from the kitchen window again
into the light and air of day. As I did so I could swear I heard a
door within that old house swing on its hinges and softly close. With
a thrill I recognized the fact that it came from the cellar.
* * * *
My thoughts on the road back to Melville were many and conflicting.
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