mute opened the door, ushering us into a small room
containing a bed and some simple furniture. A comfortable
wood fire was burning in a large open stove, and we both sat
down in front of it, shivering from exposure to the chilly
air of the night. My uncle handed a key to the mute, who
unlocked a cupboard, taking from it a decanter of whiskey,
which he set before us with glasses.

"It will warm you," said my uncle, pouring out the spirits:
"I have seen my wife. She always comes to me there--when
the light goes out. She knows your heart better than I. We
shall leave Rayel to your care. It is the last time I shall
come here. My work is nearly finished."

We emptied our glasses in silence, but my mind was busy
thinking on those impressive words, "She always comes to me
there--when the light goes out."

It was strange--this going out of the light just at that
moment. Was it not possible, I asked myself, that the
lantern, being always hung on the same projection, was thus
in the way of a current of air passing down the trunk of the
tree when a gust of wind struck its lofty branches? If so,
the knot would naturally conduct the current into the
opening at the top of the lantern. My reflections were
interrupted by my uncle, who rose, and, taking a candle,
asked me to accompany him. I followed him into a cellar
filled with casks and barrels containing, as I supposed,
wine and provisions for future use. Returning, we passed
through a large room, in one end of which many boxes and