Собака Баскервиллей

           Wehadleftthefertilecountrybehindandbeneathus. Welookedbackonitnow,theslantingraysofalowsunturningthestreamstothreadsofgoldandglowingontheredearthnewturnedbytheploughandthebroadtangleofthewoodlands. Theroadinfrontofusgrewbleakerandwilderoverhugerussetandoliveslopes,sprinkledwithgiantboulders. Nowandthenwepassedamoorlandcottage,walledandroofedwithstone,withnocreepertobreakitsharshoutline. Suddenlywelookeddownintoacup-likedepression,patchedwithstuntedoaksandfirswhichhadbeentwistedandbentbythefuryofyearsofstorm. Twohigh,narrowtowersroseoverthetrees. Thedriverpointedwithhiswhip. 

           "BaskervilleHall,"saidhe. 

           Itsmasterhadrisenandwasstaringwithflushedcheeksandshiningeyes. Afewminuteslaterwehadreachedthelodge-gates,amazeoffantastictraceryinwroughtiron,withweather-bittenpillarsoneitherside,blotchedwithlichens,andsurmountedbytheboars’headsoftheBaskervilles. Thelodgewasaruinofblackgraniteandbaredribsofrafters,butfacingitwasanewbuilding,halfconstructed,thefirstfruitofSirCharles’sSouthAfricangold. 

           Throughthegatewaywepassedintotheavenue,wherethewheelswereagainhushedamidtheleaves,andtheoldtreesshottheirbranchesinasombretunneloverourheads. Baskervilleshudderedashelookedupthelong,darkdrivetowherethehouseglimmeredlikeaghostatthefartherend. 

           "Wasithere? "heaskedinalowvoice. 

           "No,no,theYewAlleyisontheotherside." 

           Theyoungheirglancedroundwithagloomyface.