myself beating my pillow—very vindictively,
I must confess. At last, in utter recklessness,
I lay back, quite resigned, staring in
most unnatural wakefulness at the great bow
window opposite. The moonlight was still
streaming placidly in through the lozenge-
shaped panes, just touching, as it passed, with
little white splashes of light, projecting bits
of the polished old furniture. I remember
particularly a prominent knob on an ancient,
queerly-shaped garde-robe, which grew before
my eyes to the likeness of a mannikin's head,
with features all complete, and which in
process of time appeared actually to wink
familiarly at me. Where had I seen him before?
Aye, that was the question. At the door of
the last auberge, was it? Perhaps so. I can
ask the conductor at the next stage. Yes,
that will do. This coupé or catafalque is
getting very cold—very. Take care!—take
care! Go easy down the hill! Where am I?

What a good idea, I must have been
dozing, that is certain. No longer in the
diligence, thank Heaven! but in the old Cor
d'Argent. There, overhead, was the sombre
canopy, and there, through the mullions of
the great bow-window, was the moonlight
still streaming in icily, and falling aslant upon
the oaken floor. "How curious," thought I,
"the association of ideas;" and my eyes
wandered over to the mannikin's head, which no
doubt had set me dreaming of the diligence.
There he was, staring me familiarly as ever,
with the same white streak of light upon his
cheek. As I looked with a sort of lazy
recognition, I was a little puzzled at finding
the white spot disappear of a sudden, and, at
the same time, I became conscious that the
light in the room had become obscured, as if
some object had interposed between me and
the window.

I turned round hastily, and saw—as it
seemed to me—something very like a shadowy
human figure sitting in the window. I did
not gather more than that; for I was so
startled, and—shall I confess it—so frightened,
that I shut my eyes tight on the
instant, without waiting to see more, and sank
back with a sudden oppression on my chest,
which it is painful, even now, to recall. I
believe I am as courageous as the generality
of men; but somehow I have always had an
instinctive dread of anything of this sort;
for, as far as I could see, even in that short
glance, there was a filmy transparency about
what I had seen that whispered me that this
was no human intruder.

Stuff! to be frightened at a mere spectrum,
at the offspring of indigestion, of rebellious
Burgundy and truffles! Well, I must say I
had hoped better things of myself. Besides,
there were such creatures as nightmares,
were there not? To be sure there were. So
reasoning in this fashion, I thought I would
venture to take another look, and I would
lay myself ten to one it would be gone.

Slowly, and with a palpitating heart, I
opened my eyes—not in that direction, but
looking towards the mannikin, by way of
experiment. The white splash of light had
not returned, or rather had departed with it,
and the carved knob of the garde-robe was
there instead of him.

Ah! still there! Yes, full in the moonlight,
and sitting at the little table was the
same figure—a woman's—writing she seemed
to be. But so dim were the outlines, so faint
and colourless its filmy texture, that every
instant I thought it would melt away and
dissolve into the calm waste of moonlight
playing round it. Such an unearthly bluish
tinge in that moonlight.

There she sat, with her head bent over,
intently writing it seemed; yet so still—
motionless as death. And there was I, sitting
up in the bed watching her, with strained
eyeballs, perfectly fascinated; my forehead
damp with a cold sweat, my heart palpitating
so that I could head every beat. There was
a bell near me I knew, even within reach, of
rny arm. But, for all the world I durst not
have stirred. There she sat and wrote on,
motionless as ever. She had long yellow
hair, which fell about her face as she bent
over, and reached nearly to the ground, and
which looked a bright gold colour where the
moon fell on it. But what struck me, even
in all my agitation, was how straight and
heavy it seemed to fall—not clustering, or in
wavy tresses: it seemed as if it had been
wet. And her dress—yes, that seemed, too,
absolutely glistening and clinging close to her
as if fresh from the water. It was stained
all over with sand and gravel. How is all
this to end, I thought, with a sort of hopeless
despair. Just then she seemed to move,
—to raise her head. The golden locks fell
back heavily, and she was now leaning on
her hand looking up to the sky. The blue
sepulchral light passed in a slanting line
across the face, and lit up its outward edge,
and the hand and arm. I watched with
delirious expectation. She had continued
long in that attitude,—looking up to heaven,
—when, on a sudden, the golden locks dropped
aside—and I felt that she had turned her
face, and was looking fixedly at me! By the
yellow light, I saw before me a marble-looking
face, all bleached; and dull, sunken eyes
looking at me. Such a morne, melancholy,
despairing gaze! Often have I seen it since
in my dreams. The sketchy, shadowy figure
was now quivering in the broad band of
moonlight, like a dissolving view, before it
passes away. Was she going to pass away?
No—she had stood up,—she was moving
towards the bed—towards me! gliding
onwards with a soft floating motion scarcely
perceptible. O, the agony of that instant!
The lack-lustre eyes never turned from me a
moment; and I heard her dress sweeping
over the floor with a wet, sludgy sound!

She was almost beside me now. There
was a strange chill—a sudden dampness in