The vehicle had lumbered its way almost to the gates, when Captain Desfrayne, happening to look from the open window, to ascertain how far it had proceeded, saw, by the long, slanting rays cast from the lamps, a female figure, draped in black, closely veiled, hurrying along the road toward the station.
The mien, the step, even the somber robes, seemed somehow familiar to Paul Desfrayne. He put his hands to his forehead in horror and despair.
“Great heavens! It is impossible!” he cried. “Am I going out of my senses? Is this figure conjured up by my disordered brain, or is it—can it be—Lucia Guiscardini? It cannot be—and yet—and yet it is her very walk—her insolent bearing.”
The wild idea that it might be her spirit for an instant crossed his mind—a pardonable notion in the excited state of his brain, for the swiftly gliding form looked spectral in the blackness of the summer night, seeming more shadowy from being draped in such dark vesture.
Recovering from the first shock, however, he hurriedly stopped the vehicle, ordering the coachman to wait for him, and ran back in the direction the misty form had traversed.
He looked from side to side, and even struck with his cane the bushes that grew by the edge of the road on either hand, but no sign betrayed that any human creature besides himself and the old man seated on the box of the fly were within miles.
Distracted by contending feelings, he went hastily back to the spot where he had left the vehicle. The driver, an old and stupid man, was almost asleep, and stolidly awaited the return of his fare, without troubling to guess why he had so suddenly alighted.
“Did you see any one pass just now?” demanded Captain Desfrayne excitedly.
“No, sur, I can’t say I did,” replied the driver.
“Not a woman?”