from the house, and seized the bridle, and had, with
attendant circumstances of violence, taken purse
and pocket-book from an unlucky guest. "How
disagreeable," I thought, " to have to go by that
figure! I wish the man would stand out of the
way!" And then I whipped on my horse,
looking back to see that Mrs. Cranstoun, who
was close behind, was doing the same, with a
dim-defined feeling that it was better to go by
that figure quickly, to knock him down if he
would not get out of the path, to trample over
him if need were. But I did not call out to
the man; I could not have spoken a word;
I seemed to be under a spell. All this passed
quickly, and seemed as if it could not happen
otherwise, and as if I were fascinated and
mastered by the figure. In a few moments
I was close to it. Yet I did not see the face of
the man more distinctly. No one can see a face
that has the light directly behind it. All I saw
was, that there was a face, that there was
a human being, solid and material, for that
form intercepted the light, which, pouring round
it, gave it the distinctness of a statue. I could
have drawn the outline, I could draw it now—
head bent down, large cloak in picturesque folds,
obscure, yet distinct. Now, the horse's nose
seemed just about to touch the figure. "I shall
certainly ride over this man!" just flashed over
me; when, with a kind of relief, I saw the form
draw on one side with an easy motion, and as
if to give me more room to pass. I distinctly
perceived the figure lean back upon the low
sand-bank to the right of the lane. One
inappreciable instant I saw it there—dark—enfolded
in its ample garment, hiding the grass and the
rabbit-holes, the tufts and inequalities. Another
instant, the figure had disappeaied. One
moment, a figure shrouded in a cloak; another
moment, grass and a bank.

Though all passed so rapidly as to be but
the work of a moment, I must have checked
my horse for that moment, because I had
time to glance round, and to ascertain strictly
and certainly that there was no place, no nook,
no screen, which could have favoured the
possible, or (as it seemed to me) impossible
withdrawal of the figure. In that spot the bank
was low, the bushes were scanty. I could
see perfectly that there was no ditch. I could
see all over the neighbouring field. Nothing!

Then, and not till then, a sensation never felt
before, never felt since, but never to be
forgotten, came over me—a sense of the
supernatural. As Job says, "The hair of my flesh
stood up." Not that I connected the shape
that I had seen, and (if I may so speak)
beheld to vanish, with any person, or thing, or
boding, or warning. It was the mere manner of
appearance and disappearance that so struck and
shook me.

In the instant of being seized with the
conviction that I had seen a disappearance, I was
seized with a wild longing to get away from
the spot as quickly as possible. I did not turn
my head—I could not have spoken to my
companion.

But here again is a curious thing.

From the time I first saw the form, to the
moment when I sped away from the place where it
had vanished, I knew that Mrs. Cranstoun saw
all, felt all, knew all, and partook all, as if she
and I had but one brain. There was no need
for words. We were both flying from the same
terror. Close behind me she came. I knew
that she urged on her horse at the moment I
urged on mine. So on we rode—silent and
swift—enveloped in the same dread, nor ever
checked rein till we reached the friend's house
where we were staying.

Note again this remarkable thing. We
neither of us said one word respecting the
figure, to each other, to anybody: when we withdrew
to prepare ourselves for tea, or during
the whole evening. Only, when we were alone
together at night, I began:

"Did you see it?"

"Yes!"

"Can you bear to think of it, or talk of it?"

"Hardly!"

"Do you shudder when you think of it?"

"Yes!"

But, now a strong curiosity took possession
of me, and I (without a word that might
suggest an answer) asked more particularly:

"What did you see? How did you feel?"

The repetition of what Mrs. Cranstoun had
seen, felt, and thought, was the exact transcript
of what I had seen, felt, and thought. Moreover,
Mrs. Cranstoun had known, throughout,
that I was feeling just as she did, and that we
were thinking and acting as one person.

"When," she said, "you urged on your
horse, I knew that it was to pass the ugly
figure as rapidly as possible. I felt a fear
that the man (for it seemed to be a man) would
seize hold of my horse's bridle. I thought,
surely we shall ride over this man! I saw the
dark figure lean on one side, and recline, as it
were, upon the bank. Almost in the same
moment it disappeared. I looked through and
over the hedge, almost incredulously—as if, to
use an old expression, I did not believe my own
eyes. I saw that the figure had really
disappeared; and then I felt a creeping all over me,
and a wish to get away, and to reach home, as
if there would be something real there. I knew
very well that you urged on your horse for the
same reasons that I urged on mine. But I
could not have spoken to you for the world."

After this conversation, we agreed that we
would not—could not—speak of the thing
again.

But I never thought of Owens.

Three or four days after (while we were still
staying at the same friend's house where we
had been at the time of the appearance) we went
with our hosts in an open carriage to the
neighbouring town. The ladies were in a mercer's
shop, when a groom with black crape round his
hat rode up to the carriage in which I was
seated at the shop-door, and gave into my hands
a letter sealed with black. Disagreeably
impressed, I opened it, and found that it