At the head of the slimy stairs, Heywood rattled a ponderous gate in a wall, and shouted.

Some one came running, shot bolts, and swung the door inward.

The lantern showed the tawny, grinning face of a servant, as they passed into a small garden, of dwarf orange trees pent in by a lofty, whitewashed wall.
"These grounds are yours, Hackh," said Heywood.

"Your predecessor's boy; and there"-- pointing to a lonely barrack that loomed white over the stunted grove--"there's your house.

You draw the largest in the station.
A Portuguese nunnery, it was, built years ago.