We climbed out of the window, and made our way in the mist through the
long, wet grass, Nick leading. He took a path through a dark forest
swamp, over logs that spanned the stagnant waters, and at length, just as
the mist was growing pearly in the light, we came out at a tumble-down
house that stood in an open glade by the river's bank.

"What's to do now?" said Nick.

"We must get into the house," I answered. But I confess I didn't care
for the looks of it.

Nick stared at me.

"Very good, Davy," he said; "I'll follow where you go."

It was a Saturday morning. Why I recall this I do not know. It has no
special significance.

I tried the door. With a groan and a shriek it gave way, disclosing the
blackness inside. We started back involuntarily. I looked at Nick, and
Nick at me. He was very pale, and so must I have been. But such was the
respect we each held for the other's courage that neither dared flinch.
And so I walked in, although it seemed as if my shirt was made of needle
points and my hair stood on end. The crackings of the old floor were to
me like the shots in Charlestown Bay. Our hearts beating wildly, we made
our way into a farther room. It was like walking into the beyond.

"Is there a window here?" I asked Nick, my voice sounding like a shout.

"Yes, ahead of us."