CHAPTER VI

Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound!

Whose soft dominion o’er this castle sways,

And all the widely-silent places round,

Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays

What never yet was sung in mortal lays.

THOMSON

The Count gave orders for the north apartments to be opened and

prepared for the reception of Ludovico; but Dorothée, remembering what

she had lately witnessed there, feared to obey, and, not one of the

other servants daring to venture thither, the rooms remained shut up

till the time when Ludovico was to retire thither for the night, an

hour, for which the whole household waited with impatience.

After supper, Ludovico, by the order of the Count, attended him in his

closet, where they remained alone for near half an hour, and, on

leaving which, his Lord delivered to him a sword.

“It has seen service in mortal quarrels,” said the Count, jocosely,

“you will use it honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one. Tomorrow,

let me hear that there is not one ghost remaining in the château.”

Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. “You shall be obeyed, my

Lord,” said he; “I will engage, that no spectre shall disturb the peace

of the château after this night.”

They now returned to the supper-room, where the Count’s guests awaited

to accompany him and Ludovico to the door of the north apartments, and

Dorothée, being summoned for the keys, delivered them to Ludovico, who

then led the way, followed by most of the inhabitants of the château.

Having reached the back staircase, several of the servants shrunk back,

and refused to go further, but the rest followed him to the top of the

staircase, where a broad landing-place allowed them to flock round him,

while he applied the key to the door, during which they watched him

with as much eager curiosity as if he had been performing some magical

rite.

Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it, and Dorothée,

who had lingered far behind, was called forward, under whose hand the

door opened slowly, and, her eye glancing within the dusky chamber, she

uttered a sudden shriek, and retreated. At this signal of alarm, the

greater part of the crowd hurried down the stairs, and the Count, Henri

and Ludovico were left alone to pursue the enquiry, who instantly

rushed into the apartment, Ludovico with a drawn sword, which he had

just time to draw from the scabbard, the Count with the lamp in his

hand, and Henri carrying a basket, containing provisions for the

courageous adventurer.

Having looked hastily round the first room, where nothing appeared to

justify alarm, they passed on to the second; and, here too all being

quiet, they proceeded to a third with a more tempered step. The Count

had now leisure to smile at the discomposure, into which he had been

surprised, and to ask Ludovico in which room he designed to pass the

night.

“There are several chambers beyond these, your _Excellenza_,” said

Ludovico, pointing to a door, “and in one of them is a bed, they say. I

will pass the night there, and when I am weary of watching, I can lie

down.”

“Good;” said the Count; “let us go on. You see these rooms show

nothing, but damp walls and decaying furniture. I have been so much

engaged since I came to the château, that I have not looked into them

till now. Remember, Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper, tomorrow, to

throw open these windows. The damask hangings are dropping to pieces, I

will have them taken down, and this antique furniture removed.”

“Dear sir!” said Henri, “here is an arm-chair so massy with gilding,

that it resembles one of the state chairs at the Louvre, more then

anything else.”

“Yes,” said the Count, stopping a moment to survey it, “there is a

history belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it.—Let us

pass on. This suite runs to a greater extent than I had imagined; it is

many years since I was in them. But where is the bedroom you speak of,

Ludovico?—these are only ante-chambers to the great drawing-room. I

remember them in their splendour!”

“The bed, my Lord,” replied Ludovico, “they told me, was in a room that

opens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suite.”

“O, here is the saloon,” said the Count, as they entered the spacious

apartment, in which Emily and Dorothée had rested. He here stood for a

moment, surveying the reliques of faded grandeur, which it

exhibited—the sumptuous tapestry—the long and low sophas of velvet,

with frames heavily carved and gilded—the floor inlaid with small

squares of fine marble, and covered in the centre with a piece of very

rich tapestry-work—the casements of painted glass, and the large

Venetian mirrors, of a size and quality, such as at that period France

could not make, which reflected, on every side, the spacious apartment.

These had formerly also reflected a gay and brilliant scene, for this

had been the state-room of the château, and here the Marchioness had

held the assemblies, that made part of the festivities of her nuptials.

If the wand of a magician could have recalled the vanished groups, many

of them vanished even from the earth, that once had passed over these

polished mirrors, what a varied and contrasted picture would they have

exhibited with the present! Now, instead of a blaze of lights, and a

splendid and busy crowd, they reflected only the rays of the one

glimmering lamp, which the Count held up, and which scarcely served to

show the three forlorn figures, that stood surveying the room, and the

spacious and dusky walls around them.

“Ah!” said the Count to Henri, awaking from his deep reverie, “how the

scene is changed since last I saw it! I was a young man, then, and the

Marchioness was alive and in her bloom; many other persons were here,

too, who are now no more! There stood the orchestra; here we tripped in

many a sprightly maze—the walls echoing to the dance! Now, they resound

only one feeble voice—and even that will, ere long, be heard no more!

My son, remember, that I was once as young as yourself, and that you

must pass away like those, who have preceded you—like those, who, as

they sung and danced in this once gay apartment, forgot, that years are

made up of moments, and that every step they took carried them nearer

to their graves. But such reflections are useless, I had almost said

criminal, unless they teach us to prepare for eternity, since,

otherwise, they cloud our present happiness, without guiding us to a

future one. But enough of this; let us go on.”

Ludovico now opened the door of the bedroom, and the Count, as he

entered, was struck with the funereal appearance which the dark arras

gave to it. He approached the bed with an emotion of solemnity, and,

perceiving it to be covered with the pall of black velvet, paused;

“What can this mean?” said he, as he gazed upon it.

“I have heard, my Lord,” said Ludovico, as he stood at the feet,

looking within the canopied curtains, “that the Lady Marchioness de

Villeroi died in this chamber, and remained here till she was removed

to be buried; and this, perhaps, Signor, may account for the pall.”

The Count made no reply, but stood for a few moments engaged in

thought, and evidently much affected. Then, turning to Ludovico, he

asked him with a serious air whether he thought his courage would

support him through the night? “If you doubt this,” added the Count,

“do not be ashamed to own it; I will release you from your engagement,

without exposing you to the triumphs of your fellow-servants.”

Ludovico paused; pride, and something very like fear, seemed struggling

in his breast; pride, however, was victorious;—he blushed, and his

hesitation ceased.

“No, my Lord,” said he, “I will go through with what I have begun; and

I am grateful for your consideration. On that hearth I will make a

fire, and, with the good cheer in this basket, I doubt not I shall do

well.”

“Be it so,” said the Count; “but how will you beguile the tediousness

of the night, if you do not sleep?”

“When I am weary, my Lord,” replied Ludovico, “I shall not fear to

sleep; in the meanwhile, I have a book that will entertain me.”

“Well,” said the Count, “I hope nothing will disturb you; but if you

should be seriously alarmed in the night, come to my apartment. I have

too much confidence in your good sense and courage to believe you will

be alarmed on slight grounds; or suffer the gloom of this chamber, or

its remote situation, to overcome you with ideal terrors. Tomorrow, I

shall have to thank you for an important service; these rooms shall

then be thrown open, and my people will be convinced of their error.

Good night, Ludovico; let me see you early in the morning, and remember

what I lately said to you.”

“I will, my Lord; good night to your _Excellenza_; let me attend you

with the light.”

He lighted the Count and Henri through the chambers to the outer door.

On the landing-place stood a lamp, which one of the affrighted servants

had left, and Henri, as he took it up, again bade Ludovico good night,

who, having respectfully returned the wish, closed the door upon them,

and fastened it. Then, as he retired to the bed-chamber, he examined

the rooms through which he passed, with more minuteness than he had

done before, for he apprehended that some person might have concealed

himself in them, for the purpose of frightening him. No one, however,

but himself, was in these chambers, and leaving open the doors through

which he passed, he came again to the great drawing-room, whose

spaciousness and silent gloom somewhat awed him. For a moment he stood,

looking back through the long suite of rooms he had quitted, and as he

turned, perceiving a light and his own figure reflected in one of the

large mirrors, he started. Other objects too were seen obscurely on its

dark surface, but he paused not to examine them, and returned hastily

into the bedroom, as he surveyed which, he observed the door of the

oriel, and opened it. All within was still. On looking round, his eye

was arrested by the portrait of the deceased Marchioness, upon which he

gazed for a considerable time with great attention and some surprise;

and then, having examined the closet, he returned into the bedroom,

where he kindled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which revived his

spirits, which had begun to yield to the gloom and silence of the

place, for gusts of wind alone broke at intervals this silence. He now

drew a small table and a chair near the fire, took a bottle of wine and

some cold provision out of his basket, and regaled himself. When he had

finished his repast, he laid his sword upon the table, and, not feeling

disposed to sleep, drew from his pocket the book he had spoken of.—It

was a volume of old Provençal tales. Having stirred the fire into a

brighter blaze, he began to read, and his attention was soon wholly

occupied by the scenes which the page disclosed.

The Count, meanwhile, had returned to the supper-room, whither those of

the party who had attended him to the north apartment had retreated,

upon hearing Dorothée’s scream, and who were now earnest in their

enquiries concerning those chambers. The Count rallied his guests on

their precipitate retreat, and on the superstitious inclination which

had occasioned it, and this led to the question, whether the spirit,

after it has quitted the body, is ever permitted to revisit the earth;

and if it is, whether it was possible for spirits to become visible to

the sense. The Baron was of opinion, that the first was probable, and

the last was possible, and he endeavoured to justify this opinion by

respectable authorities, both ancient and modern, which he quoted. The

Count, however, was decidedly against him, and a long conversation

ensued, in which the usual arguments on these subjects were on both

sides brought forward with skill, and discussed with candour, but

without converting either party to the opinion of his opponent. The

effect of their conversation on their auditors was various. Though the

Count had much the superiority of the Baron in point of argument, he

had considerably fewer adherents; for that love, so natural to the

human mind, of whatever is able to distend its faculties with wonder

and astonishment, attached the majority of the company to the side of

the Baron; and, though many of the Count’s propositions were

unanswerable, his opponents were inclined to believe this the

consequence of their own want of knowledge on so abstracted a subject,

rather than that arguments did not exist which were forcible enough to

conquer his.

Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her father’s

glance called a blush upon her countenance, and she then endeavoured to

forget the superstitious tales she had been told in her convent.

Meanwhile, Emily had been listening with deep attention to the

discussion of what was to her a very interesting question, and,

remembering the appearance she had witnessed in the apartment of the

late Marchioness, she was frequently chilled with awe. Several times

she was on the point of mentioning what she had seen, but the fear of

giving pain to the Count, and the dread of his ridicule, restrained

her; and, awaiting in anxious expectation the event of Ludovico’s

intrepidity, she determined that her future silence should depend upon

it.

When the party had separated for the night, and the Count retired to

his dressing-room, the remembrance of the desolate scenes he had lately

witnessed in his own mansion deeply affected him, but at length he was

aroused from his reverie and his silence. “What music is that I hear?”

said he suddenly to his valet, “Who plays at this late hour?”

The man made no reply, and the Count continued to listen, and then

added, “That is no common musician; he touches the instrument with a

delicate hand; who is it, Pierre?”

“My lord!” said the man, hesitatingly.

“Who plays that instrument?” repeated the Count.

“Does not your lordship know, then?” said the valet.

“What mean you?” said the Count, somewhat sternly.

“Nothing, my Lord, I meant nothing,” rejoined the man

submissively—“Only—that music—goes about the house at midnight often,

and I thought your lordship might have heard it before.”

“Music goes about the house at midnight! Poor fellow!—does nobody dance

to the music, too?”

“It is not in the château, I believe, my Lord; the sounds come from the

woods, they say, though they seem so near;—but then a spirit can do

anything!”

“Ah, poor fellow!” said the Count, “I perceive you are as silly as the

rest of them; tomorrow you will be convinced of your ridiculous error.

But hark!—what voice is that?”

“O my Lord! that is the voice we often hear with the music.”

“Often!” said the Count, “How often, pray? It is a very fine one.”

“Why, my Lord, I myself have not heard it more than two or three times,

but there are those who have lived here longer, that have heard it

often enough.”

“What a swell was that!” exclaimed the Count, as he still listened,

“And now, what a dying cadence! This is surely something more than

mortal!”

“That is what they say, my Lord,” said the valet; “they say it is

nothing mortal, that utters it; and if I might say my thoughts—”

“Peace!” said the Count, and he listened till the strain died away.

“This is strange!” said he, as he turned from the window, “Close the

casements, Pierre.”

Pierre obeyed, and the Count soon after dismissed him, but did not so

soon lose the remembrance of the music, which long vibrated in his

fancy in tones of melting sweetness, while surprise and perplexity

engaged his thoughts.

Ludovico, meanwhile, in his remote chamber, heard, now and then, the

faint echo of a closing door, as the family retired to rest, and then

the hall clock, at a great distance, strike twelve. “It is midnight,”

said he, and he looked suspiciously round the spacious chamber. The

fire on the hearth was now nearly expiring, for his attention having

been engaged by the book before him, he had forgotten everything

besides; but he soon added fresh wood, not because he was cold, though

the night was stormy, but because he was cheerless; and, having again

trimmed his lamp, he poured out a glass of wine, drew his chair nearer

to the crackling blaze, tried to be deaf to the wind, that howled

mournfully at the casements, endeavoured to abstract his mind from the

melancholy that was stealing upon him, and again took up his book. It

had been lent to him by Dorothée, who had formerly picked it up in an

obscure corner of the Marquis’s library, and who, having opened it and

perceived some of the marvels it related, had carefully preserved it

for her own entertainment, its condition giving her some excuse for

detaining it from its proper station. The damp corner into which it had

fallen had caused the cover to be disfigured and mouldy, and the leaves

to be so discoloured with spots, that it was not without difficulty the

letters could be traced. The fictions of the Provençal writers, whether

drawn from the Arabian legends, brought by the Saracens into Spain, or

recounting the chivalric exploits performed by the crusaders, whom the

Troubadors accompanied to the east, were generally splendid and always

marvellous, both in scenery and incident; and it is not wonderful, that

Dorothée and Ludovico should be fascinated by inventions, which had

captivated the careless imagination in every rank of society, in a

former age. Some of the tales, however, in the book now before

Ludovico, were of simple structure, and exhibited nothing of the

magnificent machinery and heroic manners, which usually characterised

the fables of the twelfth century, and of this description was the one

he now happened to open, which, in its original style, was of great

length, but which may be thus shortly related. The reader will perceive

that it is strongly tinctured with the superstition of the times.

THE PROVENÇAL TALE

“There lived, in the province of Bretagne, a noble Baron, famous for

his magnificence and courtly hospitalities. His castle was graced with

ladies of exquisite beauty, and thronged with illustrious knights; for

the honour he paid to feats of chivalry invited the brave of distant

countries to enter his lists, and his court was more splendid than

those of many princes. Eight minstrels were retained in his service,

who used to sing to their harps romantic fictions, taken from the

Arabians, or adventures of chivalry, that befel knights during the

crusades, or the martial deeds of the Baron, their lord;—while he,

surrounded by his knights and ladies, banqueted in the great hall of

his castle, where the costly tapestry, that adorned the walls with

pictured exploits of his ancestors, the casements of painted glass,

enriched with armorial bearings, the gorgeous banners, that waved along

the roof, the sumptuous canopies, the profusion of gold and silver that

glittered on the sideboards, the numerous dishes, that covered the

tables, the number and gay liveries of the attendants, with the

chivalric and splendid attire of the guests, united to form a scene of

magnificence, such as we may not hope to see in these _degenerate

days_.

“Of the Baron, the following adventure is related. One night, having

retired late from the banquet to his chamber, and dismissed his

attendants, he was surprised by the appearance of a stranger of a noble

air, but of a sorrowful and dejected countenance. Believing, that this

person had been secreted in the apartment, since it appeared impossible

he could have lately passed the ante-room, unobserved by the pages in

waiting, who would have prevented this intrusion on their lord, the

Baron, calling loudly for his people, drew his sword, which he had not

yet taken from his side, and stood upon his defence. The stranger

slowly advancing, told him, that there was nothing to fear; that he

came with no hostile design, but to communicate to him a terrible

secret, which it was necessary for him to know.

“The Baron, appeased by the courteous manners of the stranger, after

surveying him, for some time, in silence, returned his sword into the

scabbard, and desired him to explain the means, by which he had

obtained access to the chamber, and the purpose of this extraordinary

visit.

“Without answering either of these enquiries, the stranger said, that

he could not then explain himself, but that, if the Baron would follow

him to the edge of the forest, at a short distance from the castle

walls, he would there convince him, that he had something of importance

to disclose.

“This proposal again alarmed the Baron, who could scarcely believe,

that the stranger meant to draw him to so solitary a spot, at this hour

of the night, without harbouring a design against his life, and he

refused to go, observing, at the same time, that, if the stranger’s

purpose was an honourable one, he would not persist in refusing to

reveal the occasion of his visit, in the apartment where they were.

“While he spoke this, he viewed the stranger still more attentively

than before, but observed no change in his countenance, or any symptom,

that might intimate a consciousness of evil design. He was habited like

a knight, was of a tall and majestic stature, and of dignified and

courteous manners. Still, however, he refused to communicate the

subject of his errand in any place, but that he had mentioned, and, at

the same time, gave hints concerning the secret he would disclose, that

awakened a degree of solemn curiosity in the Baron, which, at length,

induced him to consent to follow the stranger on certain conditions.

“‘Sir knight,’ said he, ‘I will attend you to the forest, and will take

with me only four of my people, who shall witness our conference.’

“To this, however, the Knight objected.

“‘What I would disclose,’ said he, with solemnity, ‘is to you alone.

There are only three living persons, to whom the circumstance is known;

it is of more consequence to you and your house, than I shall now

explain. In future years, you will look back to this night with

satisfaction or repentance, accordingly as you now determine. As you

would hereafter prosper—follow me; I pledge you the honour of a knight,

that no evil shall befall you;—if you are contented to dare

futurity—remain in your chamber, and I will depart as I came.’

“‘Sir knight,’ replied the Baron, ‘how is it possible, that my future

peace can depend upon my present determination?’

“‘That is not now to be told,’ said the stranger, ‘I have explained

myself to the utmost. It is late; if you follow me it must be

quickly;—you will do well to consider the alternative.’

“The Baron mused, and, as he looked upon the knight, he perceived his

countenance assume a singular solemnity.”

[Here Ludovico thought he heard a noise, and he threw a glance round

the chamber, and then held up the lamp to assist his observation; but,

not perceiving anything to confirm his alarm, he took up the book again

and pursued the story.]

“The Baron paced his apartment, for some time, in silence, impressed by

the last words of the stranger, whose extraordinary request he feared

to grant, and feared, also, to refuse. At length, he said, ‘Sir knight,

you are utterly unknown to me; tell me yourself,—is it reasonable, that

I should trust myself alone with a stranger, at this hour, in a

solitary forest? Tell me, at least, who you are, and who assisted to

secrete you in this chamber.’

“The knight frowned at these latter words, and was a moment silent;

then, with a countenance somewhat stern, he said,

“‘I am an English knight; I am called Sir Bevys of Lancaster,—and my

deeds are not unknown at the Holy City, whence I was returning to my

native land, when I was benighted in the neighbouring forest.’

“‘Your name is not unknown to fame,’ said the Baron, ‘I have heard of

it.’ (The Knight looked haughtily.) ‘But why, since my castle is known

to entertain all true knights, did not your herald announce you? Why

did you not appear at the banquet, where your presence would have been

welcomed, instead of hiding yourself in my castle, and stealing to my

chamber, at midnight?’

“The stranger frowned, and turned away in silence; but the Baron

repeated the questions.

“‘I come not,’ said the Knight, ‘to answer enquiries, but to reveal

facts. If you would know more, follow me, and again I pledge the honour

of a Knight that you shall return in safety.—Be quick in your

determination—I must be gone.’

“After some further hesitation, the Baron determined to follow the

stranger, and to see the result of his extraordinary request; he,

therefore, again drew forth his sword, and, taking up a lamp, bade the

Knight lead on. The latter obeyed, and, opening the door of the

chamber, they passed into the ante-room, where the Baron, surprised to

find all his pages asleep, stopped, and, with hasty violence, was going

to reprimand them for their carelessness, when the Knight waved his

hand, and looked so expressively upon the Baron, that the latter

restrained his resentment, and passed on.

“The Knight, having descended a staircase, opened a secret door, which

the Baron had believed was known only to himself, and, proceeding

through several narrow and winding passages, came, at length, to a

small gate, that opened beyond the walls of the castle. Meanwhile, the

Baron followed in silence and amazement, on perceiving that these

secret passages were so well known to a stranger, and felt inclined to

return from an adventure that appeared to partake of treachery, as well

as danger. Then, considering that he was armed, and observing the

courteous and noble air of his conductor, his courage returned, he

blushed, that it had failed him for a moment, and he resolved to trace

the mystery to its source.

“He now found himself on the heathy platform, before the great gates of

his castle, where, on looking up, he perceived lights glimmering in the

different casements of the guests, who were retiring to sleep; and,

while he shivered in the blast, and looked on the dark and desolate

scene around him, he thought of the comforts of his warm chamber,

rendered cheerful by the blaze of wood, and felt, for a moment, the

full contrast of his present situation.”

[Here Ludovico paused a moment, and, looking at his own fire, gave it a

brightening stir.]

“The wind was strong, and the Baron watched his lamp with anxiety,

expecting every moment to see it extinguished; but, though the flame

wavered, it did not expire, and he still followed the stranger, who

often sighed as he went, but did not speak.

“When they reached the borders of the forest, the Knight turned, and

raised his head, as if he meant to address the Baron, but then, closing

his lips in silence, he walked on.

“As they entered beneath the dark and spreading boughs, the Baron,

affected by the solemnity of the scene, hesitated whether to proceed,

and demanded how much further they were to go. The Knight replied only

by a gesture, and the Baron, with hesitating steps and a suspicious

eye, followed through an obscure and intricate path, till, having

proceeded a considerable way, he again demanded whither they were

going, and refused to proceed unless he was informed.

“As he said this, he looked at his own sword, and at the Knight

alternately, who shook his head, and whose dejected countenance

disarmed the Baron, for a moment, of suspicion.

“‘A little further is the place, whither I would lead you,’ said the

stranger; ‘no evil shall befall you—I have sworn it on the honour of a

knight.’

“The Baron, reassured, again followed in silence, and they soon arrived

at a deep recess of the forest, where the dark and lofty chesnuts

entirely excluded the sky, and which was so overgrown with underwood,

that they proceeded with difficulty. The Knight sighed deeply as he

passed, and sometimes paused; and having, at length, reached a spot,

where the trees crowded into a knot, he turned, and, with a terrific

look, pointing to the ground, the Baron saw there the body of a man,

stretched at its length, and weltering in blood; a ghastly wound was on

the forehead, and death appeared already to have contracted the

features.

“The Baron, on perceiving the spectacle, started in horror, looked at

the Knight for explanation, and was then going to raise the body and

examine if there were yet any remains of life; but the stranger, waving

his hand, fixed upon him a look so earnest and mournful, as not only

much surprised him, but made him desist.

“But, what were the Baron’s emotions, when, on holding the lamp near

the features of the corpse, he discovered the exact resemblance of the

stranger his conductor, to whom he now looked up in astonishment and

enquiry? As he gazed, he perceived the countenance of the Knight

change, and begin to fade, till his whole form gradually vanished from

his astonished sense! While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice

was heard to utter these words:—”

[Ludovico started, and laid down the book, for he thought he heard a

voice in the chamber, and he looked toward the bed, where, however, he

saw only the dark curtains and the pall. He listened, scarcely daring

to draw his breath, but heard only the distant roaring of the sea in

the storm, and the blast, that rushed by the casements; when,

concluding, that he had been deceived by its sighings, he took up his

book to finish the story.]

“While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was heard to utter

these words:—*

(*Note: This repetition seems to be intentional. Ludovico is picking up

the thread.)

“The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a noble knight of England, lies

before you. He was, this night, waylaid and murdered, as he journeyed

from the Holy City towards his native land. Respect the honour of

knighthood and the law of humanity; inter the body in christian ground,

and cause his murderers to be punished. As ye observe, or neglect this,

shall peace and happiness, or war and misery, light upon you and your

house for ever!”

“The Baron, when he recovered from the awe and astonishment, into which

this adventure had thrown him, returned to his castle, whither he

caused the body of Sir Bevys to be removed; and, on the following day,

it was interred, with the honours of knighthood, in the chapel of the

castle, attended by all the noble knights and ladies, who graced the

court of Baron de Brunne.”

Ludovico, having finished this story, laid aside the book, for he felt

drowsy, and, after putting more wood on the fire and taking another

glass of wine, he reposed himself in the arm-chair on the hearth. In

his dream he still beheld the chamber where he really was, and, once or

twice, started from imperfect slumbers, imagining he saw a man’s face,

looking over the high back of his arm-chair. This idea had so strongly

impressed him, that, when he raised his eyes, he almost expected to

meet other eyes, fixed upon his own, and he quitted his seat and looked

behind the chair, before he felt perfectly convinced, that no person

was there.

Thus closed the hour.