The interior of the building aptly accorded with its outline.  It was uncoiled, and the winds were only excluded from access through the interstices between the remotely-allied logs, by the free use of the soft clay easily attainable in all that range of country.  The light on each side of the building was received through a few small windows, one of which only was allotted to each apartment, and this was generally found to possess as many modes of fastening as the jail opposite—­a precaution referable to the great dread of the Indian outrages, and which their near neighborhood and irresponsible and vicious habits were well calculated to inspire.  The furniture of the hotel amply accorded with all its other features.  A single large and two small tables; a few old oaken chairs, of domestic manufacture, with bottoms made of ox or deer skin, tightly drawn over the seat, and either tied below with small cords or tacked upon the sides; a broken mirror, that stood ostentatiously over the mantel, surmounted in turn by a well-smoked picture of the Washington family in a tarnished gilt frame—­asserting the Americanism of the proprietor and place—­completed the contents of the great hall, and were a fair specimen of what might be found in all the other apartments.  The tavern itself, in reference to the obvious pursuit of many of those who made it their home, was entitled “The Golden Egg”—­a title made sufficiently notorious to the spectator, from a huge signboard, elevated some eight or ten feet above the building itself, bearing upon a light-blue ground a monstrous egg of the deepest yellow, the effect of which was duly heightened by a strong and thick shading of sable all round it—­the artist, in this way, calculating no doubt to afford the object so encircled its legitimate relief.  Lest, however, his design in the painting itself should be at all questionable, he had taken the wise precaution of showing what was meant by printing the words “Golden Egg” in huge Roman letters, beneath it; these, in turn, being placed above another inscription, promising “Entertainment for man and horse.”

But the night had now closed in, and coffee was in progress.  Ralph took his seat with the rest of the lodgers, though without partaking of the feast.  Rivers did not make his appearance, much to the chagrin of the youth, who was excessively desirous to account for the curious observance of this man.  He had some notion, besides, that the former was not utterly unknown to him; for, though unable to identify him with any one recollection, his features (what could be seen of them) were certainly not unfamiliar.  After supper, requesting Forrester’s company in his chamber, he left the company—­not, however, without a few moments’ chat with Lucy Munro and her aunt, conducted with some spirit by the former, and seemingly to the satisfaction of all.  As they left the room, Ralph spoke:—­

“I am not now disposed for sleep, Forrester, and, if you please, I should be glad to hear further about your village and the country at large.  Something, too, I would like to know of this man Rivers, whose face strikes me as one that I should know, and whose eyes have been haunting me to-day rather more frequently than I altogether like, or shall be willing to submit to.  Give me an hour, then, if not fatigued, in my chamber, and we will talk over these matters together.”