What is it that comes over us in these moments of superstitious fear? Surely we have all experienced this sensation: ay, even we who pride ourselves upon our clear consciences--the dread of looking behind us. Yet look we must, and do. The unhappy lady had only taken a few steps up the stairs, when she turned her head in the impulse of desperation, and there--there--at the foot of the stairs, as if he had but stepped in through the open doors of the courtyard, stood the indistinct form of a boy, bearing a lighted church; the very facsimile of the one that other boy had borne on his birthday night, while a dull, wild, unearthly sound, apparently proceeding from him, smote upon her ear.
She knew not how she got up the stairs, how she burst into her chamber in the long corridor. Prance ought to have been there; but Prance was not: there was only the wood-fire in the grate; the two wax lights on the mantelpiece.
And at the same moment she became conscious of hearing a strange noise; the wildest sounds that ever struck on the ear of man. They seemed to come from the street; the very air resounded with them; louder and louder they grew; loud enough to make a deaf man hear, to strike the most equable mind with a vague sense of momentary terror. The same basilisk impulse that had caused her to glance round on the staircase, drew her now to the window. She dashed it open and leaned out--perhaps for company in her desperate loneliness, poor thing! But--what was it she beheld?
In all parts of the street, in every corner of it, distant, near, nearer, pouring into it from all directions, as if they were making for the hotel, as if they were making for her, flocking into it in crowds,--from the Place Jean Bart, from the Rue de l'Eglise, from the Rue Nationale, from the Rue David-d'Angers, from the Place Napoleon,--came shoals upon shoals of lighted churches, toys, similar to the one she had just seen below, to the one carried by that unfortunate child a year ago, at Alnwick. Of all sizes, of all forms, of various degrees of clearness and light, a few were red and a few were green, came on these conspicuous things: paper models of cottages, of houses, of towers, of lanterns, of castles, and many models of churches; on, on they pressed; accompanied by the horrible din of these hollow and unearthly sounds. With an awful cry, that was lost in the depths of the room--what could be heard amidst that discordant babel?--Mrs. St. John turned to fly, and fell to the floor in convulsions. She had only imagined that she saw Benja in those previous nervous dreams of hers: now it seemed that the dream had passed into reality, and these were a thousand Benjas, in flesh and blood, come to mock at her.
And where was Prance? Her mistress had said to her on going down to dinner, "Wait for me in my room;" but Prance for once neglected to observe the mandate. For one thing, she had not supposed dinner would be over so soon. Prance was only in the next chamber: perfectly absorbed, both she and Mrs. Brayford, in this strange sight, which was all real; not supernatural, as perhaps poor Mrs. St. John had been thinking. They stood at the window both of them, their necks stretched out as far as they could stretch, gazing with amazed eyes at all this light and din. Nothing of the supernatural did it bear for them: they saw the scene as it was, but wondered at its cause and meaning. It was a wonderfully novel and pretty sight, though the two women kept petulantly stopping their ears and laughing at the din. The lighted toys, lanterns, churches, or whatever you please to call them, were chiefly composed of paper, the frames of splinters of wood; a few were of glass. They were borne aloft on long sticks or poles, chiefly by children; but it seemed as if the whole population had turned out to escort them; as indeed it had. The Flemish maids, in their white caps, carried these toys as well as the children, all in a state of broad delight, except when one of the lanterns took fire and was extinguished for evermore. It was a calm night: it generally is so, the inhabitants of that town will tell you, on St. Martin's Eve. The uproar proceeded from horns; cows' horns, clay horns, brass horns, any horns; one of which every lad under twenty held to his lips, blowing with all his might. Prance, who rarely exhibited curiosity about any earthly thing, was curious as to this, and sought for an explanation amidst the servants of the hotel. The following was the substance of it--
When the saint, Martin, was on earth in the flesh, sojourning in this French-Flemish town, his ass was lost one dark night on the neighbouring downs. The holy man was in despair, and called upon the inhabitants to aid him in his search. The whole population responded with a will, and turned out with horns and lanterns, a dense fog prevailing at the time. Tradition says their efforts were successful, and the lost beast was restored to its owner. Hence commenced this annual custom, and most religiously has it been observed ever since. On St. Martin's Eve and St. Martin's Night, the 10th and 11th of November, as soon as darkness comes on, the principal streets of the town are perambulated by crowds carrying their horns and lanterns. It is looked upon almost as a religious fête, and is sanctioned by the authorities. Police keep the streets clear; carriages, carts, and horses are not allowed to pass during the two or three hours that it prevails; and, in short, every consideration gives way to the horns and lanterns on St. Martin's Eve and Night.
It was a strange coincidence that had taken thither Mrs. St. John; one of those inexplicable things that we cannot explain, only wonder at. The women, their number augmented by two of the Flemish maid-servants, remained at the window, enduring the din, admiring some particularly tasty church or castle; laughing at others that took fire, to the intense irritation of their bearers. In the midst of this, Prance suddenly bethought herself of her mistress, and hastened into the adjoining room.
A sharp cry from Prance summoned Nurse Brayford. Their lady was lying on the floor, to all appearance insensible.