But in the gloomy mists of the next morning, while the scared household were watching the body laid out for its last sleep in the room where it had fallen, there staggered into the midst of them the ruined heir, his trim locks wild and wet, his fair face marred and degraded, and his eyes mad with fear.
“The traitor’s ghost—or the devil in his shape—stood in my way—I was coming—” he stuttered in thick, shaking tones.
“To the devil with your ghost! You’re drunk!” shouted the old parson, and lifted his hand.
The boy cowered, stumbled and fell on the threshold. He was indeed too late.
That was what happened at Waynflete Hall, in October, 1785.