There are two altars covered with black velvet, fringed with gold; one on each side of the table. The altar on the right supports the coffin; the one on the left, the iron chest; and around coffin and iron chest, as for a funeral, tall wax candles are dimly burning.
The dark panneled walls,—the huge pillars, quaintly carved,—the pictures, all save one, dim with age,—the hearth and its flame,—the white image of the Savior,—the central table, with its eight arm-chairs,—the dark altars, with wax candles burning around coffin and iron chest,—all combined to present an effect which, deepened by the dead stillness, is altogether impressive and ghost-like.
"The place looks like the old time," exclaims Martin Fulmer, slowly surveying its every detail,—"and,—"
The sound of the old clock again! How it rings through the mansion,—rings, and swells, and dies away! One,—two,—three,—four!
Martin Fulmer sinks into the arm-chair, at the head of the table, and from beneath his waistcoat draws forth a parchment,—the last will and testament of Gulian Van Huyden.
"There is no other way,—I must begin;" he casts his eyes toward a narrow doorway, across which is stretched a curtain. Behind that curtain wait the heirs of the Van Huyden estate. The old man, erect in his chair, at the head of the table, passes his right hand thoughtfully over his broad forehead, and through the masses of his hair, as white as snow.
And then directing his gaze toward the doorway, he begins to call the names of the Seven:
"Evelyn Somers!"
No answer,—the merchant prince now sleeps a corpse within his palace.
"Beverly Barron!"—the name of the man of fashion resounds through the still hall.