CHAPTER XVIII. THE DEATH CHAMBER. “Death is the crown of life: Were death denied, poor man would live in vain. Death wounds to cure; we fall: we rise; we reign; Spring from our fetters; fasten to the skies; When blooming Eden freshens on our sight This king of terrors is the prince of peace.” YOUNG. Autumn had deadened into winter. The brilliant foliage of the autumn woods had been hurtled off and whirled away in the winter wind. The trees were bare, their branches like black ink tracings against a background of white. The river was frozen over, the creek was frozen over, the bay near the shore was crusted with ice. The ground was covered with snow—the sky was misty-white with clouds. In very pale colors was the winter landscape drawn—in very pale colors, like the white, wan face, and the blue-grey hair of a very old man. The pale cloud-mottled grey sky above; the pale green frozen bay and river, and the snowy ground with its black ink tracery of bare trees and forests, and its dark red square old Hall on the promontory. The white snow-clouds thickened in the air as the night fell on the 18th of December. The wind arose, and a driving snow-storm came on. And through the gathering darkness on the heath shone one beacon—a light in an upper chamber window of the hall. And towards it, through the driving storm, toiled one traveller,—a fat old gentleman on a fat old horse. It was Dr. Otterback on his way to the sick bed of Mr. Withers. The bishop had been on a tour of confirmation through his diocese, and was at that time sojourning over a Sabbath at Churchill’s Point. In a quarter of an hour more he was at the Hall, he was in the sick room. This was the scene. It was a large room, carpeted with a thick carpet that gave no sound to the footfall. The windows were curtained with dark heavy curtains, lined, that let no noise through them from without. A dim lamp sat on the hearth, and cast up high monstrous shadows to the ceiling, that loomed black through the dimmer darkness like shadows through the night, and swayed to and fro, and up and down, in the flare of the lamp. Without was softly heard the smothered sough of the wind and snow, like the sob of lost spirits wailing to enter. At the furthest end of the room from the windows, stood a tall, square, canopied bedstead, with the heavy curtains looped back to the head-posts. Upon it lies a dying man, and around him are gathered his family. Draw near, though it is a sight of anguish to see the death of a life that has been much error, and _all_ bitterness. Draw near. His sallow face in its wreath of uncut black hair and whiskers, is drawn in strong relief against the pile of snow-white pillows that support his head. His sallow hands are laid out at length upon the dark coverlid.