“We have got Neuendorf and his gang to thank for that,” replied Crockett, pausing at the foot of the causeway that led to the shattered manse. “Them no-account miscreants hauled you clear out here into the country to work their infernal mischief. I knowed we wasn’t no more than spitting distance from the Asher place just as soon as I clapped eyes on that clearing. So I reckoned we’d find a place to hole up here ’til the weather dears.”

Owing to the intense gloominess of the weather—as well as to the lateness of the rapidly dying day—the visibility of the manse was greatly reduced. Even so, I could clearly perceive the utter devastation that had been wrought upon the once-fair and stately edifice. The great, carved portal was now a gaping void. The imposing ƒaçade was merely a shell-like wall, perforated with vacant, paneless windows. The vast, sloping roof had almost entirely collapsed, leaving little but a series of dark, skeletal beams silhouetted against the clouds. The towering battlements had likewise been reduced to rubble—though a section of one still reared jaggedly into the sky.

“C’mon, ol’ hoss,” said Crockett, rain trickling steadily from his broad-brimmed black hat. “Let’s get out of this drencher.”

Quickening his pace, the frontiersman led the sorrel over the causeway—through the gaping portal—and into the grim, hollow shell of the manse. Helping me to dismount, he glanced about the wreckage; then—spotting a relatively sheltered area where a portion of the shattered roof remained intact overhead—he tethered the horses reins to a fallen rafter and motioned for me to follow.

By this point, my clothing was thoroughly saturated, and I had begun to shiver violently from the cold. Sinking to my haunches, I huddled with my back against a pile of bricks from a great, tumbled chimney, while Crockett scavenged for material with which to ignite a fire. At length, he returned with an armful of fuel—pieces of wood, fragments of furniture, a portion of black velvet tapestry which had somehow escaped the blaze. Perceiving my distress, he quickly built and enkindled a fire, then turned to me and declared:

“Scrouch up closer to this campfire, Poe. Before you know it, you’ll be feeling snugger than a tick on a cow’s belly.”

Obeying his directive, I situated myself in greater proximity to the flames, adopting the cross-legged posture of an Indian brave participating in a tribal “pow-wow.” Crockett—after removing his dripping hat and setting it beside him upon the blackened floor—followed suit. Ten or more minutes of silence elapsed while we thus warmed ourselves by the blaze.

“Poe, this is nice,” Crockett commented at length, extending his hands, palms outward, toward the flames.