The faster the music, the quicker the feet, the louder the clapping.
And now, at a moment when the revelry had reached its height and the attention of all was riveted on the dancers, a sudden commotion in their midst made everybody wonder. What was it? What had happened?
I glanced at the clock, Robert glanced too; our eyes met, and I read in his a deadly fear; it was the hour for the dead to rise.
The space in front of the fireplace was now deserted, and the dancers, grouped around on either side, were eagerly peering forward to ascertain the cause of their alarm.
Curiosity, repulsion, and horror—horror wild and undiluted—were now depicted on every countenance as the gently heaving boards, slipping noiselessly asunder, revealed two hideous heads, rising as it were from the bowels of the earth.
Slowly, very slowly, with a gradation suggestive of machinery, the phantoms I knew so well at length came into full view. But stupendous as was the sensation this unlooked-for tableau produced, not a sound was uttered—and, as if to accentuate the silence, the music broke off abruptly, dancers, audience, and orchestra being similarly affected.
For a few seconds the female phantom, clutching in one arm its loathsome burden, paused irresolutely beside its tomb—and then, shaking a hand in the direction of the Honourable Walter, it made a sudden dart at the spot where he stood.
A thrill of the most intense horror accompanied this unexpected movement, all eyes being now transferred to the wretched youth.
I gave one glance at my cousin Robert—I dare not look again—his expression was frightful—he could do nothing to help his son—his position was that of the damned.