Spin in the first year, spin with care,
Bleach in the next the fabric fair;
Then garments make, when the years are three,
And every day remember me.
Twine I that year a wreath for thee;
We two that year shall wedded be.”
She has faithfully followed the counsel. The three years have expired, but still no tidings have come. As she appeals to the Virgin to bring him back, the picture moves, the flame of the lamp upleaps, there is an ominous knock at the door, and the voice of the apparition is heard urging her to cease praying and follow him to his home. She implores him to wait until the night is past, but the importunate Spectre bids her go with him, and she consents. On they speed over rough bowlders, through thorny brakes and swamps, attended by the baying of wolves, the screeching of owls, the croaking of frogs, and the fitful glow of corpse-candles. One by one he compels her to throw away her prayer-book, chaplet, and cross, and resisting all her appeals to stop and rest, at last they reach the churchyard wall. He calms her fears with the assurance that the church is his castle and the yard his garden, and bids her leap the wall with him. She promises to follow him, but after he has cleared it, sudden fear seizes her; she flies to a tiny house near by and enters. A ghastly scene takes place; spectres are dancing before the door, and the moonlight reveals to her a corpse lying upon a plank. As she gazes, horror-stricken, a knock is heard, and a voice bids the dead arise and thrust the living one out. Thrice the summons is repeated, and then as the corpse opens its eyes and glares upon her, she prays once more to the Virgin. At this instant the crowing of a cock is heard. The dead man falls back, the ghastly, spectral crew disappear, and night gives way to a peaceful morning.
“All who to Mass at morning went
Stood still in great astonishment;
One tomb there was to ruin gone,