Wondering what the old gentleman could be doing there, Harold Quaritch
walked up the steps that led to the summit of the mound, and found him
standing at the entrance to the mushroom-shaped summer-house,
contemplating the view.
"There, Colonel," he said, "there's a perfect view for you. Talk about
Scotland and the Alps! Give me a view of the valley of Ell from the
top of Dead Man's Mount on an autumn evening, and I never want to see
anything finer. I have always loved it from a boy, and always shall so
long as I live--look at those oaks, too. There are no such trees in
the county that I know of. The old lady, your aunt, was wonderfully
fond of them. I hope--" he went on in a tone of anxiety--"I hope that
you don't mean to cut any of them down."
"Oh no," said the Colonel, "I should never think of such a thing."
"That's right. Never cut down a good tree if you can help it. I'm
sorry to say, however," he added after a pause, "that I have been
forced to cut down a good many myself. Queer place this, isn't it?" he
continued, dropping the subject of the trees, which was evidently a
painful one to him. "Dead Man's Mount is what the people about here
call it, and that is what they called it at the time of the Conquest,
as I can prove to you from ancient writings.
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