I suppose he put the wax-light down; I suppose he got over his astonishment in some way: all I knew was that in a moment he was holding me in his arms, trying to soothe my sobbing. Reaction had come, and with it tears; never before had I cried so violently; and I clung to him still in an agony of terror, as one, drowning, clings to the living. But nothing remained in the gallery. Whatever had been in it had vanished.
"What is all this? What has alarmed you?"
"It was there; it was coming towards me!" I whispered hysterically in answer. "Oh forgive me! Hold me! I feel as though I should die."
"What was coming?" he inquired.
"The same—I think—that is seen in the grounds. The ghost. I saw it."
"How can you be so foolish? how can you take up these absurd fancies?" he remonstrated, in a sharp tone, moving some steps away from me.
"I did, Mr. Chandos; I did. It came along with its arm raised, as if to warn me off: a tall skeleton of a form, with shadowy features the hue of the dead. Features that bear, in their formation, a great resemblance to yours."
Was it fancy? or was it fact?—that his own features, as I spoke, assumed an ashy tint, just as they had done when the police-officers came?
"What were you doing out here?" he asked, in the same sharp accent.
"I only came to the window-seat to get a book. I saw it as I turned to go back."