Gazing along the court-yard, Adrian beheld a strange and ghastly spectacle.
Beneath the shadow of the dark gray walls, along the very space occupied by the array of chariots, one hundred years before, there extended a long line of death-cars, hearse succeeding hearse, all draped in folds of black, with four dark steeds, heavy with hangings of dark velvet, attached to each chariot of the grave, while the coachman’s seat was tenanted by a grisly skeleton, attired in the gay livery of the noble lord whom he served in life.
With maddened steps, Adrian hastened along the whole line of hearses, he beheld each death-car, with its four black steeds, their heads decorated with sable plumes, their bodies concealed by folds of black velvet, he beheld the skeleton driver seated on every hearse.
He saw the paraphernalia of death and the grave, and as the horror grew darker at his heart, he shouted aloud, asking in tones of wild amazement, the cause of this fearful panorama of woe and gloom.
There came no answer to his shout.
All was silent, save the murmur of the owl and the peals of strange music floating from the windows of the Festal Hall.
“What means this fearful scene?” whispered Adrian, as he seized the skeleton servitor of a gloomy hearse by the arm—“What means the long array of death cars?”
The skeleton extended his fleshless jaws, in a hideous grin, and with his skeleton hand, brushed the dust of the grave from his gay doublet of blue and silver, and arranged the tasteful knot of his silken sash.
Still no voice came from his bared teeth, no answer came from his fleshless visage.
“Fiend of hell,” shouted Adrian, “this sight will drive me mad.”