"Alfred, again! They are all about us; and Alfred," the voice sank to a whisper, "the spirit of Sebastien Quintado is here too."
I could not restrain the impetuous cry that broke from my lips. Perhaps, were it rightly interpreted, it was fear, the sudden effort to restore some balance of sanity in the madness of a nightmare, that forced this outburst. I only knew that I almost shouted:
"Gabrielle, Gabrielle! You have gone mad." I sprang to the lamp and relit it. The pale lights of morning were streaking the sky, and the vocal welcome of Nature was breaking out from myriad throats in the wide jubilation of the spring's resurrection.
Gabrielle was on her knees before me with her face bowed within her embracing hands. I raised her up, and we walked together to the window in silence. Upon us both fell the overwhelming consciousness that our home had become a rendez-vous for the spirits of the slain. It was haunted. But to what end?
GOD'S HAND
Neither Gabrielle nor I spoke of these marvellous matters to anyone. It was of course connected with my sister's peculiar power of mediumistic control. The appearances were oddly varied, and we began to associate the return of the spirits with certain atmospheric conditions. Then there was a notable increase—if it could be so called—of these mysterious visitants after heavy engagements, when we might assume that the hosts of the disembodied had been greatly augmented. For weeks the conditions of the house were normal, and there would be no manifestations—manifestations which I myself began to appreciate and detect. The times most favorable for the discarnate effects were the still nights, and more generally after cold days than after hot ones. Dark nights were not necessarily preferred, as on a wonderfully splendid moonlight night, my sister saw the myriad shapes and lines of these, shall I call them GHOSTS? I remember feeling myself the thrill of some electric-like sensation penetrating my nerves, and half caught before my eyes the scintillations of tiny specks of light.