“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.