As soon as possible after learning these particulars， thesculptor， together with a sad and tremulous companion，sought Elliston at his own house. It was a large， sombreedifice of wood， with pilasters and a balcony， and wasdivided from one of the principal streets by a terrace ofthree elevations， which was ascended by successive flightsof stone steps. Some immense old elms almost concealedthe front of the mansion. This spacious and oncemagnificent family-residence was built by a grandee of therace， early in the past century； at which epoch， land beingof small comparative value， the garden and other groundshad formed quite an extensive domain. Although a portionof the ancestral heritage had been alienated， there was stilla shadowy enclosure in the rear of the mansion， where astudent， or a dreamer， or a man of stricken heart， mightlie all day upon the grass， amid the solitude of murmuringboughs， and forget that a city had grown up around him.
Into this retirement， the sculptor and his companionwere ushered by Scipio， the old black servant， whosewrinkled visage grew almost sunny with intelligence andjoy， as he paid his humble greetings to one of the twovisitors.
“Remain in the arbor，” whispered the sculptor to thefigure that leaned upon his arm， “you will know whether，and when， to make your appearance.”
“God will teach me，” was the reply. “May he support metoo！”
Roderick was reclining on the margin of a fountain，which gushed into the fleckered sunshine with the sameclear sparkle， and the same voice of airy quietude， aswhen trees of primeval growth flung their shadows acrossits bosom. How strange is the life of a fountain， born atevery moment， yet of an age coeval with the rocks， and farsurpassing the venerable antiquity of a forest！
“You are come！ I have expected you，” said Elliston， whenhe became aware of the sculptor’s presence.
His manner was very different from that of the precedingday—quiet， courteous， and， as Herkimer thought， watchfulboth over his guest and himself. This unnatural restraintwas almost the only trait that betokened anything amiss.
He had just thrown a book upon the grass， where it layhalf opened， thus disclosing itself to be a natural history ofthe serpent-tribe， illustrated by life-like plates. Near it laythat bulky volume， the Ductor Dubitantium of JeremyTaylor， full of cases of conscience， and in which most men，possessed of a conscience， may find something applicableto their purpose.
“You see，” observed Elliston， pointing to the bookof serpents， while a smile gleamed upon his lips， “I ammaking an effort to become better acquainted with mybosom-friend. But I find nothing satisfactory in thisvolume. If I mistake not， he will prove to be sui generis，and akin to no other reptile in creation.”
“Whence came this strange calamity？” inquired thesculptor.
