Presently the Monk laid hand upon the Duke’s shoulder.
“Kneel, mortal, kneel,” he exclaimed in a voice which the Duke thought wondrously changed of a sudden, “kneel and behold the wonders of St. Areline! Speak not upon the peril of thy immortal soul!”
Upon the pavement of stone the Duke sank down, and the Monk began to murmur certain mysterious words, in a low, yet deep tone, and thus he continued for the space of the fourth part of an hour, when a light was seen dimly gleaming at one end of the place, and presently another and another, and gradually increasing in radiance they soon appeared to the wondering eyes of the Duke, dancing within the surface of a vast mirror of dazzling steel.
Strange it was that although the meteors,—for such they seemed—grew more brilliant every moment, and shed a more intense brightness along the surface of the mirror in which they shone, yet not a ray of light escaped to illumine the apartment, and the figures of the Duke and the Monk were wrapt in mid-night shadow.
And now soft clouds of feathery mist began to roll within the surface of the mirror, and the meteors gradually faded away into an universal brightness, which like the mellow beams that herald the coming day, poured a flood of rosy light over the tumultuous chaos within the dazzling steel.
“Behold!” cried the Monk, “behold the blessed St. Areline!”
A dim and ghastly form arose from amid the rolling clouds, far in the distance; nearer it drew and nearer, and presently the outlines of a nun, attired in the solemn hood, and sweeping robes of white, became clear and perceptible.
Advancing to the front of the mirror with a gliding motion, the hands of the spectre were folded upon its breast, and the hood of white, hung drooping over its face.
The Duke trembled with terror, and his brow was wet with large drops of moisture that oozed from his shivering skin.
“Mortal!” exclaimed a voice, soft as the tones of a spirit of light,—“mortal, what wouldst thou know?” The voice came from the shrouded face of the spectre.