“My faith!” he cried in a burst of laughter, “now for a tussle, friend ghost!”
The spectre paused and extended a hand toward the young officer. “Roland! Roland!” said the spectre in a muffled voice, “it would be a pity not to follow to the grave those you have sent there.”
And the spectre, without hastening its step, continued on its way.
Roland, astounded for an instant, came down from the stage, and resolutely followed the ghost. The path was difficult, encumbered with stones, benches awry, and over-turned tables. And yet, through all these obstacles, an invisible channel seemed open for the spectre, which pursued its way unchecked.
Each time it passed before a window, the light from with out, feeble as it was, shone upon the winding-sheet and the ghost, outlining the figure, which passed into the obscurity to reappear and vanish again at each succeeding one, Roland, his eyes fixed upon the figure, fearing to lose sight of it if he diverted his gaze from it, dared not look at the path, apparently so easy to the spectre, yet bristling with obstacles for him. He stumbled at every step. The ghost was gaining upon him. It reached the door opposite to that by which it had entered. Roland saw the entrance to a dark passage. Feeling that the ghost would escape him, he cried: “Man or ghost, robber or monk, halt or I fire!”
“A dead body cannot be killed twice, and death has no power over the spirit,” replied the ghost in its muffled voice.
“Who are you?”
“The Shade of him you tore violently from the earth.”
The young officer burst into that harsh, nervous laugh, made more terrible by the darkness around him.
“Faith!” said he, “if you have no further indications to give me, I shall not trouble myself to discover you.”