Kitabı oku: «The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, April 1844», sayfa 4
The ancient Moorish chroniclers relate many awful portents, and strange and mysterious visions, which appeared to the commanders of either army during this anxious night. Certainly it was a night of fearful suspense, and Moslem and Christian looked forward with doubt to the fortune of the coming day. The Spanish sentinel walked his pensive round, listening occasionally to the vague sounds from the distant rock of Calpe, and eyeing it as the mariner eyes the thunder cloud, pregnant with terror and destruction. The Arabs, too, from their lofty cliffs beheld the numerous camp-fires of the Christians gradually lighted up, and saw that they were a powerful host; at the same time the night breeze brought to their ears the sullen roar of the sea which separated them from Africa. When they considered their perilous situation, an army on one side, with a whole nation aroused to re-enforce it, and on the other an impassable sea, the spirits of many of the warriors were cast down, and they repented the day when they had ventured into this hostile land.
Taric marked their despondency, but said nothing. Scarce had the first streak of morning light trembled along the sea, however, when he summoned his principal warriors to his tent. ‘Be of good cheer,’ said he: ‘Allah is with us, and has sent his prophet to give assurance of his aid. Scarce had I retired to my tent last night, when a man of a majestic and venerable presence stood before me. He was taller by a palm than the ordinary race of men; his flowing beard was of a golden hue, and his eyes were so bright that they seemed to send forth flashes of fire. I have heard the Emir Bahamet, and other ancient men, describe the prophet, whom they had seen many times while on earth, and such was his form and lineament. ‘Fear nothing, O Taric, from the morrow,’ said he, ‘I will be with thee in the fight. Strike boldly, then, and conquer. Those of thy followers who survive the battle will have this land for an inheritance; for those who fall, a mansion in paradise is prepared, and immortal houris await their coming.’ He spake and vanished; I heard a strain of celestial melody, and my tent was filled with the odors of Arabia the Happy.’ ‘Such,’ says the Spanish chroniclers, ‘was another of the arts by which this arch son of Ishmael sought to animate the hearts of his followers;’ and the pretended vision had been recorded by the Arabian writers as a veritable occurrence. Marvellous, indeed, was the effect produced by it upon the infidel soldiery, who now cried out with eagerness to be led against the foe.
The gray summits of the rock of Calpe brightened with the first rays of morning, as the Christian army issued forth from its encampment. The Prince Ataulpho rode from squadron to squadron, animating his soldiers for the battle. ‘Never should we sheath our swords,’ said he, ‘while these infidels have a footing in the land. They are pent up within yon rocky mountain, we must assail them in their rugged hole. We have a long day before us: let not the setting sun shine upon one of their host, who is not a fugitive, a captive, or a corpse.’
The words of the prince were received with shouts, and the army moved toward the promontory. As they advanced, they heard the clash of cymbals and the bray of trumpets, and the rocky bosom of the mountain glittered with helms and spears and scimetars; for the Arabs, inspired with fresh confidence by the words of Taric, were sallying forth, with flaunting banners, to the combat.
The gaunt Arab chieftain stood upon a rock as his troops marched by; his buckler was at his back, and he brandished in his hand a double-pointed spear. Calling upon the several leaders by their names, he exhorted them to direct their attacks against the Christian captains, and especially against Ataulpho; ‘for the chiefs being slain,’ said he, ‘their followers will vanish from before us like the morning mist.’
The Gothic nobles were easily to be distinguished by the splendor of their arms; but the Prince Ataulpho was conspicuous above all the rest for the youthful grace and majesty of his appearance, and the bravery of his array. He was mounted on a superb Andalusian charger, richly caparisoned with crimson velvet, embroidered with gold. His surcoat was of like color and adornment, and the plumes that waved above his burnished helmet were of the purest white. Ten mounted pages, magnificently attired, followed him to the field, but their duty was not so much to fight as to attend upon their lord, and to furnish him with steed or weapon.
The Christian troops, though irregular and undisciplined, were full of native courage; for the old warrior spirit of their Gothic sires still glowed in their bosoms. There were two battalions of infantry, but Ataulpho stationed them in the rear; ‘for God forbid,’ said he, ‘that foot soldiers should have the place of honor in the battle, when I have so many valiant cavaliers.’ As the armies drew nigh to each other, however, it was discovered that the advance of the Arabs was composed of infantry. Upon this the cavaliers checked their steeds, and requested that the foot soldiery might advance and disperse this losel crew, holding it beneath their dignity to contend with pedestrian foes. The prince, however, commanded them to charge; upon which, putting spurs to their steeds, they rushed upon the foe.
The Arabs stood the shock manfully, receiving the horses upon the points of their lances; many of the riders were shot down with bolts from cross-bows, or stabbed with the poniards of the Moslems. The cavaliers succeeded, however, in breaking into the midst of the battalion and throwing it into confusion, cutting down some with their swords, transpiercing others with their spears, and trampling many under the hoofs of their horses. At this moment, they were attacked by a band of Spanish horsemen, the recreant partisans of Count Julian. Their assault bore hard upon their countrymen, who were disordered by the contest with the foot soldiers, and many a loyal Christian knight fell beneath the sword of an unnatural foe.
The foremost among these recreant warriors was the renegado cavalier whom Theodomir had challenged in the tent of Taric. He dealt his blows about him with a powerful arm and with malignant fury, for nothing is more deadly than the hatred of an apostate. In the midst of his career he was espied by the hardy Theodomir, who came spurring to the encounter: ‘Traitor,’ cried he, ‘I have kept my vow. This lance has been held sacred from all other foes to make a passage for thy perjured soul.’ The renegado had been renowned for prowess before he became a traitor to his country, but guilt will sap the courage of the stoutest heart. When he beheld Theodomir rushing upon him, he would have turned and fled; pride alone withheld him; and, though an admirable master of defence, he lost all skill to ward the attack of his adversary. At the first assault the lance of Theodomir pierced him through and through; he fell to the earth, gnashed his teeth as he rolled in the dust, but yielded his breath without uttering a word.
The battle now became general, and lasted throughout the morning with varying success. The stratagem of Taric, however, began to produce its effect. The Christian leaders and most conspicuous cavaliers were singled out, and severally assailed by overpowering numbers. They fought desperately, and performed miracles of prowess; but fell, one by one, beneath a thousand wounds. Still the battle lingered on throughout a great part of the day; and as the declining sun shone through the clouds of dust, it seemed as if the conflicting hosts were wrapped in smoke and fire.
The Prince Ataulpho saw that the fortune of battle was against him. He rode about the field calling out the names of the bravest of his knights, but few answered to his call; the rest lay mangled on the field. With this handful of warriors he endeavored to retrieve the day, when he was assailed by Tenderos, a partisan of Count Julian, at the head of a body of recreant Christians. At sight of this new adversary, fire flashed from the eyes of the prince, for Tenderos had been brought up in his father’s palace. ‘Well dost thou, traitor!’ cried he, ‘to attack the son of thy lord, who gave thee bread; thou, who hast betrayed thy country and thy God!’
So saying, he seized a lance from one of his pages, and charged furiously upon the apostate; but Tenderos met him in mid career, and the lance of the prince was shivered upon his shield. Ataulpho then grasped his mace, which hung at his saddle bow, and a doubtful fight ensued. Tenderos was powerful of frame and superior in the use of his weapons, but the curse of treason seemed to paralyze his arm. He wounded Ataulpho slightly between the greaves of his armor, but the prince dealt a blow with his mace that crushed through helm and skull, and reached the brains; and Tenderos fell dead to the earth, his armor rattling as he fell.
At the same moment a javelin, hurled by an Arab, transpierced the horse of Ataulpho, which sunk beneath him. The prince seized the reins of the steed of Tenderos; but the faithful animal, as though he knew him to be the foe of his late lord, reared and plunged, and refused to let him mount. The prince, however, used him as a shield to ward off the press of foes: while, with his sword, he defended himself against those in front of him. Taric ben Zeyad arrived at the scene of conflict, and paused, for a moment, in admiration of the surpassing prowess of the prince: recollecting, however, that his fall would be a death-blow to his army, he spurred upon him, and wounded him severely with his scimetar. Before he could repeat his blow, Theodomir led up a body of Christian cavaliers to the rescue, and Taric was parted from his prey by the tumult of the fight. The prince sank to the earth, covered with wounds, and exhausted by the loss of blood. A faithful page drew him from under the hoofs of the horses, and, aided by a veteran soldier, an ancient vassal of Ataulpho, conveyed him to a short distance from the field of battle, by the side of a small stream that gushed out from among rocks. They staunched the blood that flowed from his wounds, and washed the dust from his face, and laid him beside the fountain. The page sat at his head, and supported it on his knees; and the veteran stood at his feet, with his brow bent, and his eyes full of sorrow. The prince gradually revived, and opened his eyes. ‘How fares the battle?’ said he. ‘The struggle is hard,’ replied the soldier, ‘but the day may yet be ours.’
The prince felt that the hour of his death was at hand, and ordered that they should aid him to rise upon his knees. They supported him between them, and he prayed fervently for a short time, when, finding his strength declining, he beckoned the veteran to sit down beside him on the rock. Continuing to kneel, he confessed himself to that ancient soldier; having no priest or friar to perform that office in this hour of extremity. When he had so done, he sunk again upon the earth, and pressed it with his lips, as if he would take a fond farewell of his beloved country. The page would then have raised his head, but found that his lord had yielded up the ghost.
A number of Arab warriors, who came to the fountain to slake their thirst, cut off the head of the prince and bore it in triumph to Taric, crying, ‘Behold the head of the Christian leader!’ Taric immediately ordered that the head should be put upon the end of a lance, together with the surcoat of the prince, and borne about the field of battle, with the sound of trumpets, atabels, and cymbals.
When the Christians beheld the surcoat, and knew the features of the prince, they were struck with horror, and heart and hand failed them. Theodomir endeavored in vain to rally them; they threw by their weapons and fled; and they continued to fly, and the enemy to pursue and slay them, until the darkness of the night. The Moslems then returned, and plundered the Christian camp, where they found abundant spoil.
STANZAS TO E–
Where the young mountain river
Springs for the far-off ocean;
Where the fresh leaflets quiver
With a delightful motion;
Oh! thither hie, and see
How Nature’s youth doth tell of thee.
Where hang the sweet wild roses,
And the pale lilies drooping;
Where the violet reposes
’Neath young leaves o’er it stooping;
Oh! wander there, and see
How Nature’s beauty speaks of thee.
Where the glad brook is bringing
Sweet music never dying;
Where the bright birds are singing,
And gentle winds are sighing;
Oh! thither go with me,
And list to Nature’s song of thee.
Where ivy is entwining,
The stern tree’s branch down-bending;
Where flowers are e’er combining
Their perfume, heaven-ascending;
Oh! roam thou there, and see
How Nature’s love breathes but of thee.
BELISARIUS
The trumpet’s voice had stirred the sky,
And rustling banners waved on high;
The shouts of victory went up,
And wreaths of laurel crowned the cup
That flowed amid the festal halls,
Within the crowded city’s walls;
Stern warriors came in long array
To grace the conqueror’s pageant day:
Triumphant peeled the clarion’s tone
And spears and glancing armor shone,
Mid the dust of thousands sweeping by,
Like meteors in a midnight sky.
They’d left behind their hosts of slain
Upon the far-off battle plain,
And brought the marks of conquest back;
Proud trophies glittered on their track:
Rich armor from the vanquished won,
Bright jewels glancing in the sun;
A captive monarch’s golden throne,
And heaps of countless treasure shone;
But prouder, nobler spoils and high,
Adorned that mighty pageantry.
Reluctantly, with lofty form,
Like strong oaks blasted by the storm
But not bowed down, the captives came,
Their dark brows flushed with grief and shame;
And he, their sovereign, king no more,
In mockery the purple wore.
His the proud step, majestic mien,
The lip compressed and look serene
That mark a spirit strong and high,
A soul that smiles on destiny.
As surges breaking on the shore,
Or like the distant torrents roar,
The shouts of victory rolled afar.
And shook the hills, as the victor’s car
Gorgeous and bright was borne along
By the swift rush of the gathered throng.
A glorious sight on his haughty way,
With laurel crown, and mail-clad breast,
With waving plume and princely crest,
Was the conqueror on that day.
·····
An old man paced the guarded room,
With quivering lip and brow of gloom,
And his silver hair in the moonlight shone
Like the grayish front of a time-worn stone;
Nor voice, nor sound the still air woke,
Till his burning words the silence broke:
I
‘Where is the shining car
And where the gorgeous train?
Fled as the falling star
That sunk behind the main!
II
‘Where is the victor’s crown?
The pageant sweeping past?
Gone with the thistle-down,
Swept by the hurrying blast.
III
‘Where is the trump of Fame
That woke the startled air?
’Tis like my branded name,
And like my dying prayer.
IV
‘I’ve braved the din and strife
Of many a battle-plain,
And lavished strength and life;
My guerdon is a chain!
V
‘I brought a true heart brave,
A spirit bold and free,
Free as the ocean wave;
My country! unto thee.
VI
‘I had not thought to start
Before thy stinging frown;
Wo for the trusting heart!
Wo for the laurel crown!’
Shelter Island. Mary Gardiner.
A VERITABLE GHOST STORY
‘There are more things in heaven and earth
Than are dreamed of in our philosophy.’
Some forty years since, an elderly English gentleman, who had been successful in his pursuit after wealth in the British metropolis, determined upon purchasing an estate in the country, upon which he might retire and enjoy the residue of life in unostentatious ease and quiet. He was a man of elegant tastes and fond of antiquarian pursuits. This latter predilection induced him, in his various summer journeyings in England, to select from among those old inns or taverns which are invariably to be met with in every ancient borough or market-town, the most respectable one, as the place at which he would put up; and when ‘mine host’ gave token of being a gentleman, his companionship would generally be requested, through a card by the waiter, bearing the compliments of the guest, with a hope that it might be convenient for the landlord to favor him with his company over a bottle of wine. This was the almost invariable plan adopted, when he was unaccompanied with his ‘better half.’ It will readily be conceived that in these tête-à-tête gossipings, a great fund of anecdote and legendary tales had been gleaned, which were made subservient to the entertainment of friends when assembled around the social board. It is from this fund of gossip to which I have so often listened, that I propose to select one which, owing to my close relationship to the stout gentleman, has been to me a source of no little interest, even as a ‘thrice-told tale.’ The incident occurred at the time when he was in search of the estate to which I have alluded in the commencement of this sketch.
It was late in the evening, in the spring of the year, when he arrived at the destined stopping-place for the night, which if I remember rightly was the ancient borough of St. Albans. Here he selected an inn according to his usual taste; an old rambling disjointed patch-work piece of architecture, the gradual accumulation of many preceding generations, where might be seen rude carvings of grinning nondescript monsters supporting the projecting stories as they each hung over the side-walk; large and small casement windows, with square mullions and gothic arches, and many a gabled roof fronting on the street, where at their junction the continuous gutters projected in the form of long pipes, which in rainy weather discharged cataracts of water, deluging the unfortunate pedestrian who should unwittingly prefer the side-walk to the rough paved road. In the centre of this pile of buildings was the gate-way, large enough to admit coaches with outside passengers; and under its ample, shadowy shelter would be found the entrance to the building itself. On one side was the door to the tap-room, used by post-boys, servants, and the like class, while on the opposite side the glazed door led to the coffee-room and the more respectable apartments. Here Boniface would present himself whenever a carriage drove up, to give a hearty welcome to his guests. The interior, in accordance with the outside, was composed of low, spacious rooms, wainscoated in oaken pannels, blackened with age, but brightly polished by continued rubbings. The furniture was of a past century; the floors worm-eaten but of scrupulous cleanliness, their centres covered with modern or perchance Turkish carpets. The mullioned windows with their appropriate leaden-lozenged casements, glazed with glass of various shades of green, were ornamented with curtains, not hung for show but intended to be used nightly.
Into one of these rooms our elderly gentleman was ceremoniously shown by the obsequious waiter; and here, after the hearty meal was ended and the newspaper run through, the evening was spent, as the reader will perhaps anticipate, in company with ‘mine host.’ It was spring, as I have before said; cold and cheerless without, but within a bright blazing fire, and a table upon which sparkled generous wine, ‘that maketh glad the heart of man,’ gave earnest of comfortable quarters. You may fancy the stout gentleman and his companion honest Boniface, no shadow, each seated in arm chairs of creditable proportions, whiling away the evening hour with many a tale; a fragment of one of which we will now just touch upon.
‘And you really think the tile which you have dug up from below the foundation in the cellar, to be of the date of Julius Cæsar; and infer from it that a roof has sheltered this spot for two thousand years? It is a hallowed thought to reflect upon the crowd of spirits which must hover over and around us, if we suppose, as some do, that when we leave this tabernacle of clay, we shall continue to linger in the midst of our old haunts; and that these spirits are the unseen and unfelt witnesses of our every act. It may be mere fancy, but I am inclined to think there is more truth in the thought than cold philosophy is willing to admit.’
‘Then, Sir, you are a believer in ghosts?’ observed Boniface.
‘Why, no; I cannot say truly that I am, though I have oftentimes longed to make an acquaintance with one. By the way, I should think this building of nooks and corners was admirably adapted for the carrying out some marvel of the sort. Pray, is there not some hobgoblin or merry sprite playing his antics about your premises, my worthy host?’
Hereupon Boniface looked doubtingly, and feeling his way before committing himself, he at last admitted that ‘there was some idle story of the kind, but for his part, he put no faith in such silly things.’
‘Well, of course,’ said his guest, ‘it must be some particular room that is thus honored?’
‘Well?’ was the deferential rejoinder, in a tone denoting a wish to hear the deduction.
‘Then, if it is a bed-chamber, snug and comfortable, do me the favor to apportion it to me for the night.’
‘Most certainly, if you are serious,’ rejoined Boniface; ‘it shall be made ready immediately; but I assure you that my patrons seldom give it the preference.’
Hereupon the bell was rung, and the waiter presenting himself, was requested to direct the chamber-maid to prepare the large room, and to see that the bed was well aired, and to tell Boots to take the gentleman’s trunk up, to kindle a fire, and to see that every thing was tidy.
The evening was thus whiled away until the hour of eleven had arrived, when the great stillness of the house betokened the time for retiring. Accordingly, the chamber-maid was summoned, and with a candle in each hand, she led the way up a wide stair-case, graced with twisted bannisters and of easy ascent, terminating on a long corridor, the floor full of uncertain undulations, running the entire length of the building. At the end was a door, which upon opening, discovered a room of large proportions, with a low ceiling divided into square compartments. Here our traveller was no sooner installed and left alone, than he locked the door; then with candle in hand he began to examine each crack and cranny, but could find nothing suspicious. There were few things in it worthy of note, excepting a large bed with drawn curtains of dazzling whiteness; a most ample hearth, on which was blazing a bundle of dry faggots, sending forth a warm, cheerful light into the room, more powerful than both the candles. This huge fire-place, with its concomitant ornament, a profusely-carved mantel-piece of the usual time-stained oak, was at least five feet high, and more than two feet broad; its ingenious workmanship occupied his attention, and kept him for some time engaged in curious admiration of its exquisite quaintness. The other furniture consisted of chairs, a chest-of-drawers, and a table, all the work of a former age. An easy chair was placed in the middle of the room, in which the stout gentleman composed himself luxuriously for a short time. The room however was too large to be easily warmed, and he soon abandoned it for the bed, but not before he had raked the remaining brands together and extinguished the candles. Not feeling at once the influence of the drowsy god, he abandoned himself to many fanciful speculations. He marvelled why it was that the concurrence of all ages and nations, enlightened or ignorant, savage or civilized, should have so uniformly led to the belief in good and evil spirits wandering at large on the earth, not subject to the laws of matter, save in the sensation of sight and hearing. The creditable phalanx of names of distinguished persons who had placed their veracity on the side of believers, as having themselves been visited by the inhabitants of the other world, was opposed by his own experience; for although he had frequently thought he had been so honored, yet upon investigating the cause, he had invariably found it to be a mere delusion.
It was not long however that he was suffered thus to enjoy himself; for hearing a slight noise near the fire-place, he turned his head, and saw a deformed, dwarfish body emerge from the shadowy part of the room, proceed stealthily toward the fire, over which he rubbed his thin, attenuated hands, and then placing them under their opposite arms, he hugged himself in evident comfort. The fire had by this time so far dwindled away as to be only a handful of smouldering embers, which cast but an exceedingly feeble and uncertain light, sufficient only to reveal the general outline of the pigmy spectre. The old gentleman, with strained eyes, attentively observed his motions, till from very weariness, caused by looking through a light so dim, he began to doubt whether he saw truly: he reasoned with himself, but with no satisfactory result; till at last, desirous of ‘making assurance doubly sure,’ he gently enlarged his look-out in the slightly-opened curtains in order that he might more attentively observe the room; but all was darkness, save in the immediate vicinity of the fire. The removal of the curtain however had made a rustling noise, which had given the alarm to the spectre-imp, who immediately vanished into the gloom of the apartment on the side of the fire-place.
This was no sooner observed by the wide-awake old gentleman, than he jumped out of bed, resolved to give chase; but although stout gentlemen are generally no-wise active, not a second had elapsed before he reached the hearth, and scattering the embers in order to obtain more light, he looked carefully around, but no trace of the phantom could be seen. A few seconds more, and one of the candles was lighted, when the room was again subjected to a more rigid scrutiny; but all to no purpose; for the door remained locked, and the closet-doors were equally secure; nothing was under the bed, nor behind the table; the easy-chair could afford no shelter; in the front of every lower tier of pannels was some article of furniture, which effectually prevented their being used suddenly; beside, how could the furniture be reädjusted? The upper ones were too high to be at all likely to afford the means of such quick concealment. Hence he was completely mystified, amazed, perplexed. His mental powers were in a whirl; until at length he became perfectly bewildered, and concluded that he had been dreaming, or had been taking a short trot on a night-mare; and with this latter idea he returned, shivering like an ague, to his cold bed. The candle was now suffered to burn, and pillowing his head high, so as to see all around, the curtains having been previously withdrawn, he determined to keep vigilant watch. At length becoming composed and comfortably warm, he distinctly recalled the whole train of thought which had preceded the appearance of the strange phantom. Finally, he concluded that if it were all a dream, an illusion, never was a dream or an illusion so like reality. He must from henceforth doubt the evidence of his senses. Thus he reasoned and doubted, doubted and reasoned, until the candle’s light and all around had faded into dimness. Slumber gradually usurped its sway, and he slept till late next morning. On awaking, the whole affair was too vividly remembered, for him to settle down into a belief that he had dreamed. He was determined to satisfy himself. It was not long before his feet were in his slippers; and throwing on his dressing-gown, he went the round of another and still another examination, with no more satisfactory result than before; until at last, tired with conjecture, he dismissed it from his mind, and completed his toilet.
At the breakfast-table, he simply remarked, in reply to the inquiry if he had slept well, that he had dreamed the room was haunted by a dwarfish ghost, but he pretended to believe that it was only a dream.
‘There!’ rejoined the auditor; ‘others have dreamed the same thing!’
The discussion of the creature-comforts on the table was too interesting to permit a discussion of discomforts, and inquiry was silenced.
The morning sun was shining brightly, tempting the healthful to enjoy his cheerful beams. It was not long therefore before our traveller was seen taking the direction to the old abbey-church. The sight of such ancient buildings was always keenly relished by him, by reason of his antiquarian tastes; but in this instance, it led to the clearing up of the last night’s mystery; for in his rambles around this immense pile of architecture, he literally ‘stumbled upon’ an old friend, who was connected with the parish affairs, and was consequently enabled to give much interest to his descriptions of the place. The last night’s events were of course not forgotten; in fact it was all circumstantially detailed, even to a minute description of the dwarf.
‘Well, well,’ was the reply, ‘I think I can show you the living facsimile of your fancied dream; the only thing which puzzles me is to account for his entrance to your chamber. Let us step into the house adjoining the inn, and you shall judge for yourself.’
They accordingly adjourned to the place indicated; and there the very imp himself was actually felt and handled! It required some coaxing, not unmixed with threats, before he could be prevailed upon to unfold the secrets of his prison-house, but they were finally extorted. It seemed, that up stairs, on a level with the haunted chamber, was a closet, immediately back of the fire-place with the carved oaken mantelpiece, once side of which, it will be remembered, was at least two feet wide; and its curious carvings were so adroitly made as to conceal the cracks of that part which opened as a door: this, if even left ajar, would still be in shadow from the fire on the hearth, and consequently an instant of time was only necessary for the person near by to make his escape, and to effectually conceal the mode by which it was accomplished. The brick jam was of course hollow, and led to the back of the closet in the next house; which, being pannelled all around, and situated against a solid wall, as was supposed, had eluded discovery after the builders had passed away. How this misshapen piece of humanity had re-discovered it, I never knew; but I fancy that, accidentally being in the closet at the time when there had been a noise made in the fire-place, either from kindling a fire or cleaning it; and hearing this noise distinctly, might have suggested to him to try the back; which, opening inside of the secret passage, might have been forced from its spring-catch; while the holes in the carved work of the mantel enabled him to see if any one was in the room; and thus prevent an intrusion which would lead to his detection.
