Fire Worshipers.
he inn of St. Mark's was an old, brown, wooden house, with huge, unpainted shutters, and great oak doors, that in summer lay always invitingly open. It stood in the center of the village, with the forest stretching away behind, and the beach spreading out in front. Over the door swung a huge signboard, on which some rustic artist had endeavored to paint an eagle, but which, unfortunately, more closely resembled a frightened goose.
Within the "Eagle," as it was generally called, everything was spotlessly neat and clean; for the landlord's pretty daughter was the tidiest of housewives. The huge, oaken door in front, directly under the above-mentioned signboard, opened into the bar-room, behind the counter of which the worthy host sat, in his huge leathern chair, from "early morn till dewy eve." Another door, at the farther end, opened into the "big parlor," the pine floor of which was scrubbed as white as human hands could make it; and the two high, square windows at either end absolutely glittered with cleanliness. The wooden chairs were polished till they shone, and never blazed a fire on a cleaner swept hearth than that which now roared up the wide fire-place of the "Eagle."
It was a gusty January night. The wind came raw and cold over the distant hills, now rising fierce and high, and anon dying away in low, moaning sighs among the shivering trees. On the beach the waves came tramping inward, their dull, hollow voices booming like distant thunder on the ear.
But within the parlor of the "Eagle" the mirth and laughter were loud and boisterous. Gathered around the blazing fire, drinking, smoking, swearing, arguing, were fifteen or twenty men—drovers, farmers, fishermen, and loafers.
"This yer's what I calls comfortable," said a lusty drover, as he raised a foaming mug of ale to his lips and drained it to the last drop.
"I swan to man if it ain't a rouser of a night," said a rather good-looking young fellow, dressed in the coarse garb of a fisherman, as a sudden gust of wind and hail came driving against the windows.
"Better here than out on the bay to-night, eh, Jim?" said the drover, turning to the last speaker.
"Them's my sentiments," was the reply, as Jim filled his pipe.