A glance showed Guest a candle in a little holder on the mantelpiece, and applying the match, in another moment the black horror had given place to his friend’s room, with Stratton looking utterly prostrate, and unworthy of a moment’s dread.
Guest’s words partook of his feeling of annoyance with himself at having given his imagination so much play.
“Here, what’s come to you, man?” he cried, seizing Stratton roughly by the shoulder.
“Come to me? I—I—don’t know.”
“Have you been sitting there ever since you put out the light?”
“Yes—I think so.”
“But you heard me speak to you?”
“No; I think not. What did you say?”
“He’s trembling like a leaf,” thought Guest. “Worse than I was.”
Then aloud: