Once more we are in Vermont, in the little valley scooped in the side of the haunted hill. The rough stone cottage still stands in the middle of the clearing, but it is no longer lonely. Several horses are tied to the trees around, two of them jet-black, the rest caparisoned chargers, in the midst of which the dapple-gray steed of Adrian Schuyler is noticed. Several rangers were lounging about and in the hut, and the smoke curls up from the wide chimney, showing blue amid the silvery haze of Indian summer.
But a feature has been added to the scene since we were last there. It is not the vivid dyes of autumn alone. The mountain sides glow with crimson and gold, but that is not all.
The change consists in the fact that a lofty portal has been revealed, cut into the precipice that borders o
