“This is the last night that we shall spend in this place, dear Sybil,” said Lyon Berners, as he put the smouldering brands together to keep the fire up till morning.
Sybil replied with a deep yawn.
And in a few minutes they laid down to rest, and in a very few more they fell asleep.
How long they had slept Sybil had no means of knowing, when she was awakened by an impression that some cold damp creature had laid down on the front of the mattress close beside her. She opened her eyes and strained them around in a vague dread, but the inside of the chapel was dark as pitch. The fire had gone entirely out; she could not even see the outlines of the Gothic windows; all was black as Tartarus. But still—oh, horror!—she felt the cold damp form pressing close beside her.
A speechless, breathless awe possessed her. She could not scream, but she cautiously put out her hand to make sure whether she was dreaming, when—horror upon horror!—it touched a clammy face!
Still she did not cry out, for some potent spell seemed to bind her which at once tied her tongue and moved her hand; for that hand passed down over the slender form and straight limbs, and then up again, until it reached the still bosom, when—climax of horror!—it was caught and clasped in the clay-cold hand of the—WHAT?