‘I have you,’ he said. ‘I shall not let you go till you tell me who you are. Spirit or goblin, wait while I see your face.’
He flung the hair from his eyes, and bent, and glared down. Nothing but the obscure crown of a little hat met his vision. His hands still gripped what they had caught. He thrust the right one into a nest of warmth, and, feeling a chin, forced it upwards. It brought into view a face, very white and, in that dimness, spiritual. Its eyes stared palely into his. He said, but in a tone into which doubt had crept, with some amazement:—
‘Speak, if mortal speech be thine.’
He was answered, and breathlessly, though not as he expected.
‘And mortal feeling. Will you hurt me so? I am only a girl.’
Brion, releasing his hold, stepped back a pace. This voice was human to sweetness.
‘Art thou not a spirit?’ he stammered.
‘O! what spirit?’ said the voice.
‘Of her,’ he said, ‘that lies long ages murdered in the well yonder.’
The figure seemed to listen.