Stanley Lake's position, if all were known, was at this moment formidable enough. But he had been fifty times over, during his brief career, in scrapes of a very menacing kind; once or twice, indeed, of the most alarming nature. His temper, his craft, his impetus, were always driving him into projects and situations more or less critical. Sometimes he won, sometimes he failed; but his audacious energy hitherto had extricated him. The difficulties of his present situation were, however, appalling, and almost daunted his semi-diabolical energies. From Rachel to Dorcas, from Dorcas to the attorney, and from him to Dutton, and back again, he rambled in the infernal litany he muttered over the inauspicious tarn, among the enclosing banks and undulations, and solitary and lonely woods. 'Lake Avernus,' said a hollow voice behind him, and a long grisly hand was laid on his shoulder. A cold breath of horror crept from his brain to his heel, as he turned about and saw the large, blanched features and glassy eyes of Uncle Lorne bent over him. 'Oh, Lake Avernus, is it?' said Lake, with an angry sneer, and raising his hat with a mock reverence. 'Ay! it is the window of hell, and the spirits in prison come up to see the light of it. Did you see him looking up?' said Uncle Lorne, with his pallid smile. 'Oh! of course--Napoleon Bonaparte leaning on old Dr. Simcock's arm,' answered Lake. It was odd, in the sort of ghastly banter in which he played off this old man, how much hatred was perceptible. 'No--not he. It is Mark Wylder,' said Uncle Lorne; 'his face comes up like a white fish within a fathom of the top--it makes me laugh. That's the way they keep holiday. Can you tell by the sky when it is holiday in hell? _I_ can.' And he laughed, and rubbed his long fingers together softly. 'Look! ha! ha!--Look! ha! ha! ha!--_Look!_' he resumed pointing with his cadaverous forefinger towards the middle of the pool. 'I told you this morning it was a holiday,' and he laughed very quietly to himself. 'Look how his nostrils go like a fish's gills. It is a funny way for a gentleman, and _he's_ a gentleman. Every fool knows the Wylders are gentlemen--all gentlemen in misfortune. He has a brother that is walking about in his coffin. Mark has no coffin; it is all marble steps; and a wicked seraph received him, and blessed him till his hair stood up. Let me whisper you.' 'No, not just at this moment, please,' said Lake, drawing away, disgusted, from the maniacal leer and titter of the gigantic old man. 'Aye, aye--another time--some night there's aurora borealis in the sky. You know this goes under ground all the way to Vallambrosa?' 'Thank you; I was not aware: that's very convenient. Had you not better go down and speak to your friend in the water?' 'Young man, I bless you for remembering,' said Uncle Lorne, solemnly. 'What was Mark Wylder's religion, that I may speak to him comfortably?'