There stood before him a coffin, with four lighted candles at the corners, and covered with a great black pall that glittered as with tears.
The stranger turned to try the other side of his bed; but the coffin instantly changed places, and barred his way out as before.
Five times he made an effort to escape, and every time the bier was there beneath his feet, with the candles and the funeral pall.
The traveller then knew it was a ghost, who had some boon to ask; and kneeling up in bed, he made the holy sign, and spoke:
“Who art thou, departed one? Speak. A Christian listens to thee.”
A voice answered from the coffin,
“I am a traveller murdered here by those who kept this inn before its present owner. I died unprepared, and now I suffer in Purgatory.”
“What needs there, suffering soul, to give thee rest?”
“I want six Masses said at the church of our Lady of Folgoat, and also a pilgrimage made for my intention by some Christian to our Lady of Rumengol.”
No sooner had these words been uttered than the lights went out, the curtains closed, and all was silence.