Slowly a mirthless and very unpleasant smile dawned upon his face. At this moment, Blueskin appeared with the lamp, and revealed a horrible spectacle,—the floor deluged with blood,—various articles of furniture upset,—papers scattered about,—the murdered man's cloak, trampled upon, and smeared with gore,—his hat, crushed and similarly stained,—his sword,—the ensanguined cloth,—with several other ghastly evidences of the slaughterous deed. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. It was very much like a real house, with one central stalagmite that looked like a column and a waterfall that served when she wanted to bathe.
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