“Heigho! I wonder what o’clock it is!”
There is no one in the room, not a soul to be seen.
Next moment, from another direction, but whether above or beneath I cannot be sure, issues a low, half-demoniacal laugh of self-satisfaction.
“Ha! ha! ha!”
The great dog starts up. His hair is on end all along his spine. He growls low and glances fearfully round him as if he expected to see a spectre.
Again the mournful old-world voice and the long-drawn sigh.
“Heigho! Will he ever, ever come!”
The dog looks in my face with terrible earnestness. He expects me to explain. I cannot—I feel uneasy. We listen for many minutes, but hear no more, till the rising wind moans drearily round the house and the fire gets low on the hearth.
“Ha! ha! ha!” The demon laugh again! It is a kind of half-ironical chuckle, impossible to describe. Then a voice in pitiful tones of entreaty:
“Don’t do it. Don’t do it.”