'Lake Avernus,' said a hollow voice behind him, and a long grisly hand was laid on his shoulder.
A cold breath of horror crept from his brain to his heel, as he turned about and saw the large, blanched features and glassy eyes of Uncle Lorne bent over him.
'Oh, Lake Avernus, is it?' said Lake, with an angry sneer, and raising his hat with a mock reverence.
'Ay! it is the window of hell, and the spirits in prison come up to see the light of it. Did you see him looking up?' said Uncle Lorne, with his pallid smile.
'Oh! of course—Napoleon Bonaparte leaning on old Dr. Simcock's arm,' answered Lake.
It was odd, in the sort of ghastly banter in which he played off this old man, how much hatred was perceptible.
'No—not he. It is Mark Wylder,' said Uncle Lorne; 'his face comes up like a white fish within a fathom of the top—it makes me laugh. That's the way they keep holiday. Can you tell by the sky when it is holiday in hell? I can.'
And he laughed, and rubbed his long fingers together softly.
'Look! ha! ha!—Look! ha! ha! ha!—Look!' he resumed pointing with his cadaverous forefinger towards the middle of the pool.
'I told you this morning it was a holiday,' and he laughed very quietly to himself.