tofusrosethehugeexpanseofthemoor,mottledwithgnarledandcraggycairnsandtors.Acoldwindsweptdownfromitandsetusshivering.Somewherethere,onthatdesolateplain,waslurkingthisfiendishman,hidinginaburrowlikeawildbeast,hisheartfullofmalignancyagainstthewholeracewhichhadcasthimout.Itneededbutthistocompletethegrimsuggestivenessofthebarrenwaste,thechillingwind,andthedarklingsky.EvenBaskervillefellsilentandpulledhisovercoatmorecloselyaroundhim.
Wehadleftthefertilecountrybehindandbeneathus.Welookedbackonitnow,theslantingraysofalowsunturningthestreamstothreadsofgoldandglowingontheredearthnewturnedbytheploughandthebroadtangleofthewoodlands.Theroadinfrontofusgrewbleakerandwilderoverhugerussetandoliveslopes,sprinkledwithgiantboulders.Nowandthenwepassedamoorlandcottage,walledandroofedwithstone,withnocreepertobreakitsharshoutline.Suddenlywelookeddownintoacuplikedepression,patchedwithstuntedoaksandfirswhichhadbeentwistedandbentbythefuryofyearsofstorm.Twohigh,narrowtowersroseoverthetrees.Thedriverpointedwithhiswhip.
“BaskervilleHall,”saidhe.
Itsmasterhadrisenandwasstaringwithflushedcheeksandshiningeyes.Afewminuteslaterwehadreachedthelodge-gates,amazeoffantastictraceryinwroughtiron,withweather-bittenpillarsoneitherside,blotchedwithlichens,andsurmountedbytheboars’headsoftheBaskervilles.Thelodgewasaruinofblackgraniteandbaredribsofrafters,butfacingitwasanewbuilding,halfconstructed,thefirstfruitofSirCharles’sSouthAfricangold.
Throughthegatewaywepassedintotheavenue,wherethewheelswereagainhushedamidtheleaves,andtheoldtreesshottheirbranchesinasombretunneloverourheads.Baskervilleshudderedashelookedupthelong,darkdrivetowherethehouseglimmeredlikeaghostatthefartherend.
“Wasithere?”heaskedinalowvoice.
“No,no,theyewalleyisontheotherside.”
Theyoungheirglancedroundwithagloomyface.
“It’snowondermyunclefeltasiftroublewerecomingonhiminsuchaplaceasthis,”saidhe.“It’senoughtoscareanyman.I’llhavearowofelectriclampsuphereinsideofsixmonths,andyouwon’tk