The room that fell to the lot of George Prentiss was a huge one, square, high ceilinged and hung with rich but faded tapestries. The furniture was dark and massive; a great four poster bed of mahogany, with a spreading canopy over it, stood near the door.
There was a wide fireplace, the clean-swept hearth of which showed no indication of a fire having been lighted in it for some time.
When George had bidden the others good-night he closed the door and placed his candle upon the table. The light danced grotesquely upon the walls, dimly illuminating the quaint figures upon the tapestry and the old paintings that hung here and there. The young man drew the curtains at the windows so that the flare of the lightning would not disturb him; there were other candles upon the mantel and having a curiosity to better view his apartment, he kindled a pair of these and placed them where they would do the most good.
The tapestry proved to be an ancient French one, and depicted the deeds of Charles Martel; the portraits were partly of New Amsterdam Dutchmen and with a good sprinkling of English.
“Ancestors,” mused George as he gazed at these. “I can see the features of my host in most of them.” His eyes paused upon a large painting at the far end of the apartment; it was so somber, the shadows played so upon it, that he took up a candle and went nearer. Holding the light so that he could view the picture to better advantage, he saw the name “Dirk Van Camp” upon the heavy frame.
“A burgomaster of the old Dutch days,” said George to himself. “And a stern, dogged sort of a fellow he must have been, judging by his face.”
The furnishings of the tapestried room were mostly of European make; Dutch tables and chairs; English sofas and stands; and near to the fireplace stood a tall French mirror that swung in its frame. George sat down in a heavy chair before this and began removing his cravat; his back was turned to that end of the apartment where hung the portrait of Burgomaster Van Camp, and the light of the candle which George had left upon a stand near the picture threw the determined, joyless face into good relief.
“Good shelter and a four poster bed are not to be treated lightly on a night like this,” the young New Englander told himself, as he threw the cravat upon a table. Then he removed his short sword and the pistol which he had kept buttoned under his coat while in the drawing-room; after this he began tugging at one of his riding boots.
It was while he was so engaged, for the boot was stubborn, that he caught the reflection of the burgomaster’s portrait in the mirror. The chair in which George sat hid the greater part of the picture; but the face was plain, and it was as though it was peering over his shoulder.
“Now, there is a grim old curmudgeon for you,” smiled the youth. “I’ll venture to say he never laughed in his life save when he had driven a hard bargain, or gotten the better of some one in another fashion.”