"Caspar Rufenacht!"
"Ah! you have heard the story? Then I am spared the pain of telling it to you. That is well."
I bent my head in silence. We walked together without another word to the wicket, and thence round to the churchyard gate. It was now twilight, and the first stars were out.
"Good-night, my son," said the pastor, giving me his hand. "Peace be with you."
As he spoke the words his grasp tightened—his eyes dilated—his whole countenance became rigid.
"Look!" he whispered. "Look where it goes!"
I followed the direction of his eyes, and there, with a freezing horror which I have no words to describe, I saw—distinctly saw through the deepening gloom—a tall, dark figure in a priest's soutane and broad-brimmed hat, moving slowly across the path leading from the parsonage to the church. For a moment it seemed to pause—then passed on to the deeper shade, and disappeared.
"You saw it?" said the pastor.
"Yes—plainly."
He drew a deep breath; crossed himself devoutly; and leaned upon the gate, as if exhausted.