You could do that sort of thing in a climate
like Nepenthe, if you were not fastidious in the matter of owls, bats,
lizards, toads, earwigs, centipedes, and an occasional scorpion.
CHAPTER XII
No Russians dwelt within the Cave of Mercury. It was inconveniently
remote; it was difficult of approach; moreover, it was haunted.
Dreadful rites had been performed there, in olden times. The walls had
dripped with human gore. Death-groans of victims slain by the priestly
knife resounded in its hollow entrails. Such had been the legend in the
days of those monkish chroniclers in whose credulous pages Monsignor
Perrelli, incredulous himself, had discovered a mine of curious
information.
Then came the Good Duke Alfred. His Highness posed as a conservative in
some matters; it pleased him to revive memories of the long-buried
past. He cared little about ghosts. He liked to take things in hand.
After remarking in his brisk epigrammatic fashion that "not everything
old is putrid," he devoted his attention to the Cave of Mercury and
caused a flight of convenient stairs to be built, wide enough to admit
the passage of two of his fattest Privy Councillors walking abreast,
and leading down to this particular grotto through a cleft in the rock.
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