appearance lulled every such suspicion. Nor had it escaped unscathed from the despoilation of war. At a distance, gazing from the side of the mountain, I could perceive no change. But now, close at hand, even the intense darkness could not hide the scars left by vandals. The front steps were broken, splintered as if by an axe, and the supporting pillars of the wide veranda had been hacked and gashed. The door above was tightly closed, yet both the windows to the right were smashed in, sash and all, leaving a wide opening. I crept forward, and endeavored to peer through, but the darkness within was opaque. The only sound was the beating of rain on the roof overhead. Occasionally the swirl of the wind drove the cold drops against me where I crouched listening; I was wet through, chilled to the bone, my uniform clinging to me like soaked paper. At least the inside promised shelter from the storm, a chance for a fire, and possibly fragments of food. And I had nothing to fear but darkness.
My revolver was under the flap of my cavalry jacket, dry and ready for use. I brought it forward, within easy grip, and stepped over the sill. My feet touched carpet, littered with broken glass, and I felt about cautiously, locating an overturned chair, and a cushioned settee, minus one leg. My recollection of the interior of the house was vague and indistinct
