house! We know! But at least you still stand; and in the ashes of our
Northland not a roof or a spire remains aloft between the dwelling of
Deborah Glenn and the ford at the middle fort."

Boyd broke silence with an effort; and his voice was once more cool
and careless, if a little forced:

"So it's this way hereabouts, too," he said with a shrug and a sign to
me to dismount. Which I did stiffly; and our rifleman escort scrambled
from his sweatty saddle and gathered all three bridles in his mighty,
sunburnt fist.

"Either there is a man or a ghost within," I said again, "Whatever it
is has moved."

"A man," said Boyd, "or what the inhumanity of man has left of him."

And it was true, for now there came to the door and opened it a thin
fellow wearing horn spectacles, who stood silent and cringing before
us. Slowly rubbing his workworn hands, he made us a landlord's bow as
listless and as perfunctory as ever I have seen in any ordinary. But
his welcome was spoken in a whisper.

"God have mercy on this house," said Boyd loudly. "Now, what's amiss,
friend? Is there death within these honest walls, that you move about
on tiptoe?"

"There is death a-plenty in Westchester, sir," said the man, in a
voice as colorless as his drab smalls and faded hair. Yet what he said
showed us that he had noted our dress, too, and knew us for strangers.