'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.

'Look how his nostrils go like a fish's gills. It is a funny way for a
gentleman, and _he's_ a gentleman. Every fool knows the Wylders are
gentlemen--all gentlemen in misfortune. He has a brother that is walking
about in his coffin. Mark has no coffin; it is all marble steps; and a
wicked seraph received him, and blessed him till his hair stood up. Let
me whisper you.'