As it is
we can see nothing; yet as we get along we find that we are not alone.
Voices reach our ears; but they are not, as usual, the voices of mirth
and laughter. These which we hear--and they are not far from us--are
grave and serious; the utterance thick and low, as if those from whom
they proceed were expressing a sense of sympathy or horror. We have now
advanced up this rugged path about half a mile from the highway we
have mentioned, and discovered a light which will guide us to our
destination. As we approach the house the people are increasing in point
of numbers; but still their conversation is marked by the same strange
and peculiar character. Perhaps the solemn depth of their voices gains
something by the ominous aspect of the sky; but, be this as it may, the
feeling which it occasions fills one with a different and distinct sense
of discomfort.
We ourselves feel it, and it is not surprising; for, along this wild and
rugged path of darkness, we are conducting the reader to the wake of a
murderer. We have now arrived within fifty yards of the house, which,
however, we cannot see, for nothing but a solitary light is visible.
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