“Then you don’t believe a word of it?”
“I don’t say that. There would be less of courage than boasting in talking so, if I did not believe a word of it.”
“Then you do believe it?”
But Hugh was too much of a Scotchman to give a hasty opinion, or rather a direct answer—even when half-tipsy; especially when such was evidently desired. He only shook and nodded his head at the same moment.
“Do you really mean you would meet her if you could?”
“I do.”
“Then, if all tales are true, you may, without much difficulty. For the coachman told me only to-day, that you may see her light in the window of that room almost any night, towards midnight. He told me, too (for I made quite a friend of him to-day, on purpose to hear his tales), that one of the maids, who left the other day, told the groom—and he told the coachman—that she had once heard talking; and, peeping through the key-hole of a door that led into that part of the old house, saw a figure, dressed exactly like the picture of Lady Euphrasia, wandering up and down, wringing her hands and beating her breast, as if she were in terrible trouble. She had a light in her hand which burned awfully blue, and her face was the face of a corpse, with pale-green spots.”
“You think to frighten me, Funkelstein, and make me tremble at what I said a minute ago. Instead of repeating that. I say now: I will sleep in Lady Euphrasia’s room this night, if you like.”
“I lay you a hundred guineas you won’t!” cried the Bohemian.
“Done!” said Hugh, offering him his hand. Funkelstein took it; and so the bet was committed to the decision of courage.