The Castle Of The Shadows E-Book

A. M. (Alice Muriel) Williamson

• Herausgeber: Edizioni Savine
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

According to the calendar it was winter; but between Mentone and the frontier town of Ventimiglia, on the white road inlaid like a strip of ivory on dark rocks above the sapphire of the Mediterranean, it was fierce summer in the sunshine. A girl riding between two men, reined in her chestnut mare at a cross-road which led into the jade-green twilight of an olive grove. The men pulled up their horses also, and all three came to a sudden halt at a bridge flung across a swift but shallow river, whose stony bed cleft the valley.
The afternoon sunshine poured down upon them, burnishing the coils of the girl's hair to gold, and giving a dazzling brilliancy to a complexion which for twenty years to come need not fear the light of day. She was gazing up the valley shut in on either side with thickly wooded hills, their rugged heads still gilded, their shoulders already half in shadow; but the eyes of the men rested only upon her. One was English, the other Italian; and it was the Italian whose look devoured her beauty, moving hungrily from the shining tendrils of gold that curled at the back of her white neck, up to the small pink ear almost hidden with a thick, rippling wave of hair; so to the piquant profile which to those who loved Virginia Beverly, was dearer than cold perfection.

Leseprobe

THE CASTLE OF THE SHADOWS

Books by

C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON

The Lightning Conductor

The Princess Passes

My Friend the Chauffeur

Lady Betty Across the Water

Rosemary in Search of a Father

My Lady Cinderella

The Car of Destiny

The Chaperon

The Princess Virginia

Set in Silver

Etc., Etc.

The Castle of the Shadows

By

MRS. C. N. WILLIAMSON

New York Doubleday, Page & Company 1909

AUTHORIZED EDITION DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.

TO A GOOD MARCHESE THIS STORY OF A WICKED MARCHESE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

PAGE

I.

Where Dreamland Began

3

II.

The Story Told by Two

31

III.

A Mystery and a Bargain

61

IV.

The Closed Door

84

V.

The Lady on the Verandah

108

VI.

The End of the World

134

VII.

The Gates Open

158

VIII.

Number 1280

178

IX.

A Cry Across the Water

201

X.

"Once on Board the Lugger"

224

XI.

Virginia's Great Moment

248

XII.

Stand and Deliver!

270

XIII.

The Game of Bluff

294

THE CASTLE OF THE SHADOWS

The Castle of the Shadows

CHAPTER I

WHERE DREAMLAND BEGAN

According to the calendar it was winter; but between Mentone and the frontier town of Ventimiglia, on the white road inlaid like a strip of ivory on dark rocks above the sapphire of the Mediterranean, it was fierce summer in the sunshine. A girl riding between two men, reined in her chestnut mare at a cross-road which led into the jade-green twilight of an olive grove. The men pulled up their horses also, and all three came to a sudden halt at a bridge flung across a swift but shallow river, whose stony bed cleft the valley.

The afternoon sunshine poured down upon them, burnishing the coils of the girl's hair to gold, and giving a dazzling brilliancy to a complexion which for twenty years to come need not fear the light of day. She was gazing up the valley shut in on either side with thickly wooded hills, their rugged heads still gilded, their shoulders already half in shadow; but the eyes of the men rested only upon her. One was English, the other Italian; and it was the Italian whose look devoured her beauty, moving hungrily from the shining tendrils of gold that curled at the back of her white neck, up to the small pink ear almost hidden with a thick, rippling wave of hair; so to the piquant profile which to those who loved Virginia Beverly, was dearer than cold perfection.

"Oh, the olive woods!" she exclaimed. "How sweet they are! See the way the sunshine touches the old, gnarled trunks, and what a lovely light filters through the leaves. One never sees it anywhere except in an olive grove. I should like to live in one."

"Well, why not?" laughed the Englishman. "What prevents you from buying two or three? But you would soon tire of them, my child, as you do of everything as soon as it belongs to you."

"That's not fair," replied the girl. "Besides, if it were, who has helped to spoil me? I will buy an olive grove, and you shall see if I tire of it. Come, let's ride up the valley, and find out if there are any for sale. It looks heavenly cool after this heat."

"You'll soon discover that it's too cool," said the Italian, in perfect English. "The sun is only in these valleys for a few hours, and it's gone for the day now. Besides, there's nothing interesting here. One sees the best from where we stand."

Virginia Beverly turned her eyes upon him, and let them dwell on his face questioningly. "Of course, you must know every inch of this country," she said, "as you used to live just across the Italian border."

For once he did not answer her look. "I haven't spent much time here for several years. Paris has absorbed me," he said evasively. "One forgets a good deal; but if you want to see a really charming valley, we had better go farther on. Then I think I can show you one."

Virginia's pretty brows, which were many shades darker than her hair, drew together. "But I don't want to go farther," she said. "And I like this valley."

"Spoilt child!" ejaculated the Englishman, who claimed rights of cousinship, though by birth Virginia was American.

At that moment two members of the riding party, who had contrived to be left behind, came leisurely up. One was a very handsome, dark woman, who succeeded in looking not more than thirty, the other a young man of twenty-five, enough like Virginia to suggest that they were brother and sister.

"What are you stopping for?" inquired Lady Gardiner, who would not have been sorry to keep her friends in advance.

"Waiting for you," said Virginia promptly. "I want to explore this valley."

As she spoke she gave her mare a little pat on the velvety neck. The animal, which was Virginia's own, brought from her namesake state, had never known the touch of the whip, but understood the language of hand and voice. She went off at a trot up the shadowed road; and the Marchese Loria was the first to follow. But he bit his lip under the black moustache, pointed in military fashion at the ends, and appeared more annoyed than he need because a pretty girl had insisted upon having her own way.

It was not yet cold, as he had prophesied, but it was many degrees cooler than in the sunshine; and as they rode on the valley narrowed, the soft darkness of the olive grove closing in the white road that overhung the rock-bed of the river.

The hills rose higher, shutting out the day, and there was a brooding silence, only intensified by the hushed whisper of the water among its pebbles.

The shoulders of the heights were losing their gold glitter now; and Virginia had a curious sensation of leaving reality behind and entering a mysterious dreamland.

For a long time they rode without speaking. Then Virginia broke the spell of constraint which had fallen upon them.

"Where are the persons who gather the olives?" she asked of the Italian, who rode almost sullenly beside her.

"This isn't the time of year for that," he replied, more abruptly than was his custom in speaking to her.

"I never saw such a deserted place!" exclaimed the girl. "We have ridden ever so far into the valley now—two miles at least—and there hasn't been a sign of human habitation; not a person, not a house, except the little ruined tower we passed a few minutes ago, and that old château almost at the top of the hill. Look! the last rays of the sun are touching its windows before saying good-bye to the valley. Aren't they like the fiery eyes of some fierce animal glaring watchfully down at us out of the dusk?"

Pointing upward, she turned to him for approval of her fancy, and to her surprise saw him pale, as if he had been attacked with sudden illness.

"What is the matter?" she asked quickly.

"Nothing at all," he replied. "A slight chill, perhaps."

"No, there is more than that," Virginia said slowly. "I'm sure of it. I've been sure ever since we stood on the bridge looking up this valley. You wanted to go on. You could hardly bear to stop, and when I proposed riding in you made excuses."

"Only for your sake, fearing you might catch cold."

"Yet you suggested going on to another valley. Would it have been warmer than this? Oh, Marchese, I don't like you when you are subtle and secretive. It reminds me that we are of different countries—as different as the north can be from the south. Do tell me what is really in your mind. Why do you hate this valley? Why has coming into it tied your tongue, and made you look as if you had seen a ghost?"

"You exaggerate, Miss Beverly," said Loria. "But if you care to know the precise truth you shall, on one condition."

"What is it?"

"That you turn your horse's head and consent to go out into the sunshine again. When we are there I will tell you."

"No. If I hear your story, and think it worth turning back for, I will. I mean to have a nearer glimpse of that château. It must have a lovely view over the tops of the olive trees."

She touched the mare, who changed from a trot into a gallop. In five minutes more they would be under the castle; but almost instantly Loria, obliged to follow, had caught up with her again.

"One of the greatest sorrows of my life is connected with this valley," he answered desperately. "Now will you take pity upon me and turn round?"

Virginia hesitated. The man's voice shook. She did not know whether to yield or to feel contempt because he showed emotion so much more readily than her English and American friends. But while she hesitated they were joined by her cousin, Sir Roger Broom, who had been riding behind with her half-brother, George Trent, and Lady Gardiner.

"Look here, Loria," he exclaimed, with a certain excitement underlying his tone; "it has just occurred to me that this is—er—the place that's been nicknamed for the last few years the 'Valley of the Shadow.'"

"You are right," answered Loria. "That is why I didn't wish to come in."

Sir Roger nodded toward the château, which now loomed over them, gray, desolate, one half in ruins, yet picturesquely beautiful both in position and architecture. "Then that is——" he began, but the Italian cut him short.

"Yes. And won't you help me persuade Miss Beverly that we've seen enough of this valley now?"

"Why, the castle's for sale!" cried Virginia suddenly, before Roger Broom had had time to speak.

She pointed to one of the tall gate-posts at the foot of the hill, close to the road, which showed a notice-board announcing in both French and Italian that the Château de la Roche was to be sold, permission to view being obtainable within.

"Poor people; they must have been reduced to sad straits indeed!" murmured Sir Roger, looking at the board with its faded lettering, half defaced by time and weather.

"Yes, it was all very unfortunate, very miserable," Loria said hastily. "Shall we go back?"

The Englishman seemed hardly to hear. "I'd seen photographs of the valley, but I'd quite forgotten, until suddenly it began to look familiar. Then, all in a flash, I remembered."

"What do you remember; and why do you call this the Valley of the Shadow?" demanded Virginia. "You are both very mysterious. But perhaps it's the influence of the place. Everything seems mysterious here."

Roger Broom sighed, and roused himself with an effort from his reverie. "Queer that we should have drifted here by accident," he said—"especially with you, Loria."

"Why especially with me?" the other asked with a certain sharpness.

"You were the poor fellow's friend. Oh, Virginia, forgive me for not answering you. This place is reminiscent of tragedy. A man whom I used to know slightly, and Loria intimately, lived here. That grim old house perched up on the hillside has been the home of his ancestors for hundreds of years. Now, you see, it is for sale. But it's likely to remain so. Who would buy it?"

"Why not?" asked Virginia. "Is it haunted?"

"Only by melancholy thoughts of a family ruined, a man cut off from life at its best and brightest, to be sent into exile worse than death. By the way, Loria, do you know what became of the sister?"

"I have heard that she still lives here with an aunt and one old servant," answered the Italian, his face gray-white in the greenish dusk of the olive woods.

"Is it possible? What a life for a girl! I suppose that there is absolutely not money enough to keep up another establishment, no matter how small. Why, were there no relatives—no one to help?"

"The relatives all believed in her brother's guilt, and she would have nothing to do with them. As for help, her family is a difficult one to help. Of course it would be a good thing for her to sell the château."

Virginia sat her horse between the two others, impatient and curious. It was easy to see how distasteful the conversation was to the Marchese Loria. He answered Sir Roger's questions only by an effort; and as for her cousin, even he was moved out of the imperturbable sang-froid which sometimes pleased, sometimes irritated Virginia, according to her mood.

"Was it because of this young man's guilt that the place was called the Valley of the Shadow?" she asked again.

"Yes. A mere nickname, of course, though an ominous one," said Roger. "You see, the Dalahaides used to keep open house, and spend a great deal of money at one time, so that their ruin threw a gloom over the country even colder than the evening shadows. The father took his own life in shame and despair, the mother died of grief, and only a girl is left of the four who used to be so happy together."

"But what of the fourth—the brother?" In spite of herself, Virginia's voice sank, and the penetrating chill of the valley crept into her spirit.

"He is worse than dead," answered Roger evasively. "By Jove! Loria is right. It is cold here. Let us turn back."

"I should like to buy that château,"

announced the American girl, as calmly as if she had spoken of acquiring a new brooch.

"Good gracious! What next?" exclaimed Sir Roger. "But you're not in earnest, of course."

"I am in earnest," said she. "I should love to have it. It's an ideal house, set on that great rocky hill, and ringed round with olive groves. Though the sun is gone so soon from the bottom of the valley, where we are, the château windows are still bright. The place fascinates me. I am going to ride in and ask to see the house. Who will come with me?"

Virginia looked at the Marchese with a half-smiling challenge; but he did not speak, and Lady Gardiner's black eye gave out a flash. She was as poor as she was handsome and well-born, and her life as the American girl's chaperon was an easy one. The thought that Virginia Beverly might make up her mind to become the Marchesa Loria was disagreeable to Kate Gardiner, and she was glad that the Italian should displease the spoilt beauty.

"I'll go with you, dear, if you are really bent on the adventure," said the elder woman.

"Forgive me, Miss Beverly. But I—once knew these people. I could not go into their house on such an errand. They would think I had come to spy on their misfortune," protested Loria miserably.

"I knew them too," said Roger Broom, "and I'll stay down here and keep Loria company."

Lady Gardiner looked at George Trent, with whom she was having an amusing flirtation, which would certainly have been more than amusing if he had been only a quarter as rich as his half-sister.

"I'll take you and Virgie up to the door, anyhow," he responded to the look, and springing from his horse, he pushed open the tall gate of rusty iron.

Then, mounting again, the three passed between the gray stone gate-posts with an ancient carved escutcheon obliterated with moss and lichen. They rode along the grass-grown avenue which wound up the hill among the cypresses and olive trees, coming out at last, as they neared the château, from shadow into a pale, chastened sunshine which among the gray-green trees had somewhat the effect of moonlight.

"Have you ever heard of the Dalahaides?" Virginia demanded of her chaperon.

"If I have, I've forgotten," said Lady Gardiner. "And yet there does seem to be a dim memory of something strange hovering at the back of my brain."

They were above the grove now, on a terrace with a perspective of ruined garden, whence the battered faces of ancient statues peeped out, yellow-white from behind overgrown rose bushes and heliotrope. The château was before them, the windows still reflecting the sunlight; but this borrowed glitter was all the brightness it had. Once beautiful, the old battlemented house had an air of proud desolation, as if scorning pity, since it could no longer win admiration.

"You would have to spend thousands of pounds in restoring this old ruin if you should really buy it, Virginia," said Lady Gardiner.

"Well, wouldn't it be worth while to spend them?" asked the girl. "I certainly——" She stopped in the midst of her sentence, a bright flush springing to her face; for turning a corner of the avenue which brought them close to the château, they came suddenly upon a young woman, dressed in black, who must have heard their last words.

Instantly George Trent had his hat in his hand, and before Virginia could speak he had dismounted and plunged into explanations. He begged pardon for the intrusion, and said that, as they had seen the announcement that the château was for sale, they had ventured to ride up in the hope of being allowed to see the house. As he spoke, in fairly good though rather laboured French, he smiled on the girl in black with a charming smile, very like Virginia's. And Lady Gardiner looked from one to the other gravely. She was not as pleased as she had been that George Trent had come here with them, for the girl in the shabby black dress had a curiously arresting, if not beautiful face, and her surroundings, the background of the desolate castle, and the circumstances of the meeting, framed her in romance.

Lady Gardiner did not like the alacrity with which Trent had snatched off his hat and sprung from his horse, nor did she approve of the expression in his eyes, though Virginia's were just as eager.

To the surprise of all three, the girl answered in English; not the English of a French jeune fille, instructed by an imported "Miss," but the English of an Englishwoman, pure and sweet, though the voice was sad and lifeless. Her melancholy dark eyes, deep and sombre as mountain tarns, wandered from the brother's handsome face to the beautiful one of the sister.

"Pray don't speak of an intrusion," she said. "Our servant will be glad to show you through the house, and afterward, if you really think of buying the place, he will give you the address of an agent in Mentone who can tell you everything."

"Then shan't we find you again when we have seen the château?" asked Virginia wistfully.

The girl smiled for the first time, but there was no brightness in the smile. "I shall be very pleased to speak with you before you go if there is anything you care to say to me," she replied, mechanically raising the great bunch of heliotrope she had been gathering to her lips.

"Now I will call our servant. He will put up your horses while you go in; though I'm afraid that we have no very good accommodation for them, as our stables have been empty for a long time."

"Oh, thank you, we needn't give him that trouble," said Trent. "I can fasten the horses' bridles to some tree or other, and they will be all right."

The girl disappeared, a slender, youthful figure in the plain black gown, yet her step, though it was not slow, had none of the lithsomeness of youth. She seemed to have lost all joy of life, though she could scarcely have been more than twenty-two or three.

"Another mystery!" Virginia said in a low voice. "How comes she to be English? Is she the girl they were talking about down below, or is she a companion?"

"She looks like a banished princess," said Trent. "I never saw such wonderful eyes. Deep as a well, reflecting a night of stars."

Lady Gardiner's lips tightened a little. She was rather vain of her eyes. "I think the girl would appear a very ordinary young person," she remarked, "if one saw her anywhere but here."

George lifted her down from the horse without answering, but Virginia did not wait to be helped. She sprang to the ground, and by the time that George had tethered the horses an old man in a faded livery came limping out from the side door through which the girl in black had lately disappeared.

Almost crippled with rheumatism, he had still all the dignity of a trusted servant of an ancient house, and his old eyes seemed gravely to defy these prosperous young people to criticize his threadbare clothing.

"Mademoiselle" had desired him to take monsieur and mesdames over the château, he politely announced in French, and went on to beg that they would give themselves the trouble of being conducted to the door at the front, that they might go in by the great hall. He also regretted that the visitors had not arrived earlier in the day, as the rooms could not be seen at their best advantage so near to sunset.

Virginia's heart began to beat oddly as she entered the house. She had still the feeling of having left realities behind and strayed into dreamland; but with the opening of the heavy door it seemed to her that the dream was about to change into a vision which would mean something for her future.

Of course it was all nonsense, she told herself, as the old man led them across the shadowy, tapestry-hung hall, and from one huge, dim, wainscotted or frescoed room to another; yet always, as they approached a doorway, she caught herself thinking—"Now a strange thing is going to happen."

"This is the state drawing-room; this is the library; this is the chapel; this is the bride's suite," the servant announced laconically. But though the castle was evidently very ancient and must have a private history of its own, centuries old, he offered no garrulous details of past grandeur, as most servants would. As they walked through a dining-room of magnificent proportions, but meagrely furnished, they passed a half-open door, and Virginia had a glimpse of a charming little room with a huge projecting window. Mechanically she paused, then drew away quickly as she saw that mademoiselle was seated at a table arranging the flowers she had gathered in the melancholy garden. The old man hobbled on, as if the door had not existed, and Virginia would have followed, had not the girl in black stepped forward and invited them in, with a certain proud humility.

"This is our sitting-room—my aunt's and mine," she said. "My aunt is not here now, so come in, if you will. It is a small room; still, it is one of the brightest and most home-like we have left."

She held open the door, and the three visitors obeyed her gesture of invitation; but suddenly the girl's face changed. The blood streamed up to her forehead, then ebbed again, leaving her marble-pale. She gave a slight start, as if she would have changed her mind and kept the strangers from entering; yet she made no motion to arrest them.

"She has just remembered something in this room that she doesn't wish us to see," thought Virginia; but it was too late to retreat, without drawing attention to an act which she could not explain. They all went in, the others apparently suspecting nothing; but in a second Virginia instinctively guessed the reason of her hostess's sudden constraint, and the sympathetic thrill that ran through her own veins surprised her. In a panel of the darkly wainscotted and curiously gilded wall was placed a life-size portrait of a man. It was an oil-painting, defective in technique, perhaps, but so spirited, so extraordinarily lifelike as to give an effect, at first glance in the twilight, as if a handsome young man were just stepping in through an open door. Virginia seemed to meet the brilliant, audacious eyes; the frank, almost boyish smile was for her; and—whether because of the half-told story of this strange house, or because of the brave young splendour of the figure in the portrait—her heart gave a bound such as it had never yet given for a man.

She did not need to be told that this was the counterfeit presentment of him who, in some mysterious way, had brought ruin upon those who loved him; and suddenly she understood the full meaning of Loria's words when he had said, "The relatives all believed in his guilt, so his sister would have nothing to do with them."

Virginia Beverly, headstrong, wilful, passionate, was only superficially spoilt by the flattery which had been her daily diet as a great beauty and a great heiress. She was impulsive, but her impulses were true and often unselfish. Now her warm heart went out to meet the loyal heart of the pale, sad girl in black, whom an hour ago she had never seen, whose very name she had not known. "She is right to believe in him," Virginia said to herself. "Loyalty is the finest virtue of all. I believe in him too. Whatever crime they say he committed, I'm sure he was innocent. What—a criminal, with that face? It's not possible, and I wish I could tell her so."

She could scarcely tear her eyes from the portrait, though she feared to let her interest be observed, lest it should unjustly be put down to vulgar curiosity. And when the old man who conducted them, having met and answered a quick glance from his mistress, invited the visitors to continue their tour of inspection, Virginia left her thoughts behind in the room of the portrait, walking as in a dream through the series of lofty, half-dismantled apartments which still remained to be visited.

She hoped that, when they should see their hostess again for the promised leave-taking, it would be in the same room as before. But she was doomed to disappointment. Mademoiselle met the party in the great hall, and, hearing from George Trent that his sister thought seriously of buying the château, gave them the address of an estate agent in Mentone.

Virginia was not a self-centred girl, and at any other time she would have been surprised at the encouragement given to this new whim of hers by her half-brother; she would have sought some underlying cause, for George Trent—who was her mother's son by a first marriage—was nearly five years older than she, and rather piqued himself upon influencing her to ways of wisdom. But now, though he extolled the charms of the Château de la Roche, and made light of the expenses of restoration, as they rode down the avenue under the olive trees, Virginia was too much occupied with the mystery of the house and the portrait's original to observe the young man's manner. It did not escape Lady Gardiner's observation, however, and her thoughts were troubled.

She was thirty-six and George Trent was ten years younger; but she confessed to twenty-nine, and really did not look more, except when certain worries, which she usually kept in the background, pressed heavily upon her. For a year, ever since Virginia had left America for England and the Continent, she had lived with the sister and brother, and had been reaping a harvest almost literally of gold and diamonds. She did not want Virginia to marry and free herself from chaperonage; and if she could not marry George Trent herself, since he was neither old enough nor rich enough, she could not bear the thought that he might forget his passing admiration for her, and fall seriously in love with some one else.

She, too, was curious concerning mademoiselle and her past, but with a very different curiosity from Virginia's, and she determined to learn the story of the Dalahaides and their château above the Valley of the Shadow. She did not, however, wish to appear curious before Virginia or her brother, and hoped that the American girl, with her wonted audacity, would at once approach the topic when they had rejoined Sir Roger Broom and the Marchese Loria. But Virginia asked no questions, contenting herself with answering those of her cousin, which for some reason confined themselves entirely to the château. Lady Gardiner was sure, since he admitted having known the Dalahaides, that, being human, Roger would have liked to hear something of the girl who lived there like Mariana in the Moated Grange; and it would have been interesting to know why he refrained from mentioning her.

As they rode through the valley, dark and sad now, in the chill of its early dusk, she brought her horse to Virginia's side in so narrow a defile of the road that Roger, who was with the girl, dropped behind.

"Have you noticed that the Marchese hasn't asked us a single question about your château?" she remarked. "He is a changed man since we came into this valley. I wonder if there was ever anything between him and that tragic-looking girl up there? Perhaps Sir Roger knows, and that's the reason he didn't speak of her."

"Perhaps," echoed Virginia listlessly, and Kate Gardiner said no more.

An odd restraint seemed to have settled on the whole party, which had started out so gaily in the sunshine. Each one was sunk deep in his or her own thoughts, as if the twilight had touched them with its delicate melancholy.

They were stopping at the Cap Martin hotel, high on the hill in its beautiful garden, and among its pines; and there was a dance that night, for which Virginia had promised Loria several waltzes; but she complained that the ride had tired her.

Instead of dancing she went after dinner to the private sitting-room which she and Lady Gardiner shared, having quietly asked Roger Broom if he would come to her there for a few minutes. He found her, not in the room, but on the balcony, in floods of moonlight, which gave her beauty an unearthly charm as she lay on a chaise longue, wrapped in an evening cloak of white and silver brocade.

"You don't mind leaving the dance a little while—for me?" she asked.

Roger smiled his quiet, pleasant smile. "There's nothing in the world I would mind leaving for you, Virginia," he said, "and I think you know that very well."

"Sometimes I believe it's true. I should like to believe it to-night," she answered, "because I need your help. There's a secret, and I must find it out."

As the girl spoke there was a slight sound in the room beyond the big, open window.

"What's that?" exclaimed Roger. "Who is there?"

"Nobody," said Virginia. "It must be a log of olive-wood falling in the fireplace."