I know not which of the three was the more astonished, for my mother had not heard of my adventures of the night. They never took their wondering eyes off me as I told my story, and my heart swelled with pride when my uncle said that we had carried ourselves well, and that he did not think that many of our age would have stood it as stoutly.
“But as to this ghost, it must have been the creature of your own minds,” said he. “Imagination plays us strange tricks, and though I have as steady a nerve as a man might wish, I cannot answer for what I might see if I were to stand under that blood-stained ceiling at midnight.”
“Uncle,” said I, “I saw a figure as plainly as I see that fire, and I heard the steps as clearly as I hear the crackle of the fagots. Besides, we could not both be deceived.”
“There is truth in that,” said be, thoughtfully. “You saw no features, you say?”
“It was too dark.”
“But only a figure?”
“The dark outline of one.”
“And it retreated up the stairs?”
“Yes.”
“And vanished into the wall?”