“This is far enough,” said a voice, which was evidently that of the gentleman. “I will not suffer the young lady to go any farther. Many people would have distrusted you too much to have come even so far, but you see I am willing to humour you.”
“To humour me!” cried the voice of the girl whom he had followed. “You’re considerate, indeed, sir. To humour me! Well, well, it’s no matter.”
“Why, for what,” said the gentleman in a kinder tone, “for what purpose can you have brought us to this strange place? Why not have let me speak to you, above there, where it is light, and there is something stirring, instead of bringing us to this dark and dismal hole?”
“I told you before,” replied Nancy, “that I was afraid to speak to you there. I don’t know why it is,” said the girl, shuddering, “but I have such a fear and dread upon me tonight that I can hardly stand.”
“A fear of what?” asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity her.
“I scarcely know of what,” replied the girl. “I wish I did. Horrible thoughts of death, and shrouds with blood upon them, and a fear that has made me burn as if I was on fire, have been upon me all day. I was reading a book tonight, to wile the time away, and the same things came into the print.”
“Imagination,” said the gentleman, soothing her.
“No imagination,” replied the girl in a hoarse voice. “I’ll swear I saw ‘coffin’ written in every page of the book in large black letters,—aye, and they carried one close to me, in the streets tonight.”
“There is nothing unusual in that,” said the gentleman. “They have passed me often.”
“Real ones,” rejoined the girl. “This was not.”