THE RUINED COTTAGE

It was delightful to see the glow and twinkle of the fire and to escape
from the wet wind and the numbing cold, but my curiosity had already
risen so high about this lonely man and his singular dwelling that my
thoughts ran rather upon that than upon my personal comfort. There was
his remarkable appearance, the fact that he should be awaiting company
within that miserable ruin in the heart of the morass at so sinister an
hour, and finally the inexplicable incident of the chimney, all of which
excited my imagination. It was beyond my comprehension why he should at
one moment charge me sternly to continue my journey, and then, in almost
the same breath, invite me most cordially to seek the shelter of his
hut. On all these points I was keenly on the alert for an explanation.
Yet I endeavoured to conceal my feelings, and to assume the air of a man
who finds everything quite natural about him, and who is much too
absorbed in his own personal wants to have a thought to spare upon
anything outside himself.

A glance at the inside of the cottage, as I entered, confirmed me in the
conjecture which the appearance of the outside had already given rise
to, that it was not used for human residence, and that this man was only
here for a rendezvous. Prolonged moisture had peeled the plaster in
flakes from the walls, and had covered the stones with blotches and
rosettes of lichen. The whole place was rotten and scaling like a
leper. The single large room was unfurnished save for a crazy table,
three wooden boxes, which might be used as seats, and a great pile of
decayed fishing-net in the corner. The splinters of a fourth box, with
a hand-axe, which leaned against the wall, showed how the wood for the
fire had been gathered. But it was to the table that my gaze was