e prospect of warm
embraces, to be followed with an inevitable thrashing.

One only of the boys had nothing of this to fear. He was an orphan: a
French boy, without father or mother, and perfectly content just then
with his motherless condition; for nobody taking any interest in him,
his back was safe from the dreaded blows. The two others were natives of
Guernsey, and belonged to the parish of Torteval.

Having climbed the grassy hill, the three birds'-nesters reached the
tableland on which was situate the haunted house.

They began by being in fear, which is the proper frame of mind of every
passer-by; and particularly of every child at that hour and in that
place.

They had a strong desire to take to their heels as fast as possible, and
a strong desire, also, to stay and look.

They did stop.

They looked towards the solitary building.

It was all dark and terrible.

It stood in the midst of the solitary plain--an obscure block, a hideous
but symmetrical excrescence; a high square mass with right-angled
corners, like an immense altar in the darkness.

The first thought of the boys was to run: the second was to draw nearer.
They had never seen this house before. There is such a thing as a desire
to be frightened arising from curiosity. They had a little French boy
with them, which emboldened them to approach.

It is well known that the French have no fear.

Besides, it is reassuring to have company in danger; to be frightened in
the company of two others is encouraging.

And then they were a sort of hunters accustomed to peril. They were
children; they were used to search, to rummage, to spy out hidden
things. They were in the habit of peeping into holes; why not into this
hole? Hunting is exciting. Looking into birds' nests perhaps gives an
itch for looking a little into a nest of ghosts. A rummage in the dark
regions. Why not?

From prey to prey, says the proverb, we come to the devil. After the
birds, the demons. The boys were on the way to learn the secret of those
terrors of which their parents had told them. To be on the track of
hobgoblin tales--nothing could be more attractive. To have long stories
to tell like the good housewives. The notion was tempting.

All this mixture of ideas, in their state of half-confusion,
half-instinct, in the minds of the Guernsey birds'-nesters, finally
screwed their courage to the point. They approached the house.

The little fellow who served them as a sort o