Ten months had passed since we last saw General Hamilton, yet the time seemed to have etched years onto his appearance. His once serene countenance was now tinged with gloom and anxiety, replacing the cordiality that once defined his features. The penetrating gaze of his dark blue eyes now held a sternness, peeking from beneath his shaggy grey eyebrows. This transformation wasn’t merely a product of grief; it carried hints of deeper, angrier emotions that had reshaped him.

As we resumed our drive, the General, in his usual direct manner, delved into what he termed a “bereavement” – the loss of his beloved niece and ward. His tone shifted to one of intense bitterness and fury, railing against the nefarious forces that had ensnared her. He expressed not just outrage but a fervent disbelief that such malevolence could exist unchecked by divine intervention.

“My dear General,” my father interjected gently, “what you describe is indeed troubling. Would you be willing to share the circumstances that led to such strong sentiments?”

The General paused, his eyes clouded with memories and emotions. “I should tell you all with pleasure,” he said, “but you would not believe me.”

“Why should I not?” my father asked.

“Because,” the General answered testily, “you believe in nothing but what consists with your own prejudices and illusions. I remember when I was like you, but I have learned better.”

“Try me,” said my father; “I am not such a dogmatist as you suppose. Besides, I very well know that you generally require proof for what you believe, and am, therefore, very strongly predisposed to respect your conclusions.”

“You are right in supposing that I have not been led lightly into a belief in the marvelous—for what I have experienced is marvelous—and I have been forced by extraordinary evidence to credit that which ran counter, diametrically, to all my theories. I have been made the dupe of a preternatural conspiracy.”

Notwithstanding his professions of confidence in the General’s penetration, I saw my father, at this point, glance at the General, with, as I thought, a marked suspicion of his sanity.

The General did not see it, luckily. He was looking gloomily and curiously into the glades and vistas of the woods that were opening before us.

“You are going to the Ruins of Rosewood?” he said. “Yes, it is a lucky coincidence; do you know I was going to ask you to bring me there to inspect them. I have a special object in exploring. There is a ruined chapel, ain’t there, with a great many tombs of that extinct family?”

“So there are—highly interesting,” my father replied. “I hope you are thinking of claiming the title and estates?”

My father said this gaily, but the General did not recollect the laugh, or even the smile, which courtesy exacts for a friend’s joke; on the contrary, he looked grave and even fierce, ruminating on a matter that stirred his anger and horror.

“Something very different,” he said, gruffly. “I mean to unearth some of those fine people. I hope, by God’s blessing, to accomplish a pious sacrilege here, which will relieve our earth of certain monsters, and enable honest people to sleep in their beds without being assailed by murderers. I have strange things to tell you, my dear friend, such as I myself would have scouted as incredible a few months since.”

My father looked at him again, but this time not with a glance of suspicion—with an eye, rather, of keen intelligence and alarm.

“The house of Rosewood,” he said, “has been long extinct: a hundred years at least. My dear wife was maternally descended from the Rosewoods. But the name and title have long ceased to exist. The castle is a ruin; the very village is deserted; it is fifty years since the smoke of a chimney was seen there; not a roof left.”

“Quite true. I have heard a great deal about that since I last saw you; a great deal that will astonish you. But I had better relate everything in the order in which it occurred,” said the General. “You saw my dear ward—my child, I may call her. No creature could have been more beautiful, and only three months ago none more blooming.”

“Yes, poor thing! when I saw her last she certainly was quite lovely,” said my father. “I was grieved and shocked more than I can tell you, my dear friend; I knew what a blow it was to you.”

He took the General’s hand, and they exchanged a kind pressure. Tears gathered in the old soldier’s eyes. He did not seek to conceal them. He said:

“We’ve been friends for so long; I knew you’d understand, especially since I have no children of my own,” the General lamented, his voice heavy with sorrow. “She meant everything to me, brought light into my life, and now it’s all shattered. I don’t have many years left, but I pray I can do something meaningful before my time is up—to seek justice for my daughter and bring closure to this nightmare that has torn apart our lives!”

“You mentioned wanting to share the details of what happened,” my father prompted gently. “Please, go ahead. We’re here to listen, not out of mere curiosity, but out of genuine concern.”

As we approached the point where the Drunstall road diverged from our path to Rosewood, the General’s eyes searched ahead anxiously. “How much farther to the ruins?” he asked.

“About half a league,” my father replied. “Please, continue with the story you promised to tell us.”