Von Funkelstein merely replied:
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Sutherland, for misunderstanding you. The ring is quite an equivalent.” And making him a respectful bow, he turned and left him.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE LADY EUPHRASIA.
The black jades of swart night trot foggy rings ‘Bout heaven’s brow. ‘Tis now stark dead night.
JOHN MARSTON.—Second Part of Antonio and Mellida.
As soon as Hugh was alone, his first action was to lock the door by which he had entered; his next to take the key from the lock, and put it in his pocket. He then looked if there were any other fastenings, and finding an old tarnished brass bolt as well, succeeded in making it do its duty for the first time that century, which required some persuasion, as may be supposed. He then turned towards the other door. As he crossed the room, he found four candles, a decanter of port, and some biscuits, on a table—placed there, no doubt, by the kind hands of Euphra. He vowed to himself that he would not touch the wine. “I have had enough of that for one night,” said he. But he lighted the candles; and then saw that the couch was provided with plenty of wraps for the night. One of them—he recognised to his delight—was a Cameron tartan, often worn by Euphra. He buried his face in it for a moment, and drew from it fresh courage. He then went into the furthest recess, lifted the tapestry, and proceeded to fasten the concealed door. But, to his discomfiture, he could find no fastening upon it. “No doubt,” thought he, “it does fasten, in some secret way or other.” But he could discover none. There was no mark of bolt or socket to show whence one had been removed, nor sign of friction to indicate that the door had ever been made secure in such fashion. It closed with a spring.
“Then,” said Hugh, apostrophising the door, “I must watch you.”
As, however, it was not yet near the time when ghosts are to be expected, and as he felt very tired, he drank one glass of the wine, and throwing himself on the couch, drew Euphra’s shawl over him, opened his book, and began to read. But the words soon vanished in a bewildering dance, and he slept.
He started awake in that agony of fear in which I suppose most people have awaked in the night, once or twice in their lives. He felt that he was not alone. But the feeling seemed, when he recalled it, to have been altogether different from that with which we recognise the presence of the most unwelcome bodily visitor. The whole of his nervous skeleton seemed to shudder and contract. Every sense was intensified to the acme of its acuteness; while the powers of volition were inoperative. He could not move a finger.