But, we are not a superstitious nobleman,
and we don't mind. Well! we dismiss our servant, lock the door, and
sit before the fire in our dressing-gown, musing about a great many
things. At length we go to bed. Well! we can't sleep. We toss and
tumble, and can't sleep. The embers on the hearth burn fitfully and
make the room look ghostly. We can't help peeping out over the
counterpane, at the two black figures and the cavalier--that wicked-
looking cavalier--in green. In the flickering light they seem to
advance and retire: which, though we are not by any means a
superstitious nobleman, is not agreeable. Well! we get nervous--
more and more nervous. We say "This is very foolish, but we can't
stand this; we'll pretend to be ill, and knock up somebody." Well!
we are just going to do it, when the locked door opens, and there
comes in a young woman, deadly pale, and with long fair hair, who
glides to the fire, and sits down in the chair we have left there,
wringing her hands. Then, we notice that her clothes are wet. Our
tongue cleaves to the roof of our mouth, and we can't speak; but, we
observe her accurately. Her clothes are wet; her long hair is
dabbled with moist mud; she is dressed in the fashion of two hundred
years ago; and she has at her girdle a bunch of rusty keys.
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