She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. An entire forest’s array of meats was served in courses brought out to the table. "I think you're all bewitched," she cried. She had found the mausoleum underneath a broken monument. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. Had he found the secret door? Running to the centre, she tried to judge where the knocking came from. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. The aspect of the place, so far as he could discern through the gloom, was strange to him; but chancing to raise his eyes above the level of the surrounding habitations, he beheld, relieved against the sombre sky, the tall steeple of Saint Giles's church, the precursor of the present structure, which was not erected till some fifteen years later.
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