Matt by Robert W. Buchanan — Read

Not far from the spot where William Jones had landed, and removed some little distance from the deserted village with its desolate main street and roofless habitations, there stood a low one-storied cottage, quite as black and forbidding-looking as any of the abandoned dwellings in its vicinity. It was built of stone, and roofed with slate, but the doorway was composed of old ship's timber, and the one small window it contained had originally formed the window of a ship's cabin. Over the door was placed, like a sign, the wooden figure-head of a young woman, naked to the waist, holding a mirror in her hand, and regarding herself with remarkable complacency, despite the fact that accident had deprived her of a nose and one eye, and that the beautiful red complexion and jet black hair she had once possessed had been entirely washed away by the action of the elements, leaving her all over of a leprous pallor. The rest of the building, as I have suggested, was of sinister blackness, though here and there it was sprinkled with wet sea sand. Sand, too, lay on every side, covered a small patch, originally meant for a garden, and drifted thickly up to the very door.

To this cottage William Jones ran with his treasure trove, and, entering in without ceremony, found himself in almost total darkness -- for the light which crept through the blackened panes of the small windows was only just sufficient to make darkness visible. But this worthy seaside character, having, in addition to a cat's predatory instincts, something of a cat's power of vision, clearly discerned everything in the chamber he just entered -- a rude stone-paved kitchen, with an open fireplace, and no grate, black rafters overhead, from which were hung sundry lean pieces of bacon, a couple of wooden chairs, a table, and in one corner a sort of bed in the wall, where a human figure was reposing. Setting down the trunk on the floor, he marched right over to the bed, and unceremoniously shook the individual lying upon it, whom he discovered to be snoring and muttering in a heavy sleep. Finding that he did not wake with shaking, William Jones bent down and cried lustily in his ear --