“Are you a convert to the superstition?” she inquired, disregarding the request.
“N—o,” replied George Godolphin. But his voice sounded strangely indecisive. “Pray continue, Charlotte.”
It was the first time he had ever called her by her Christian name: and though she saw that it was done in the unconscious excitement of the moment, her cheeks flushed to a deeper crimson.
“Did you ever see the Shadow?” she breathed.
He bowed his head.
“What form does it take?”
George Godolphin did not answer. He appeared lost in thought, as he scored his horse’s neck with his hunting-whip.
“The form of a bier, on which rests something covered with a pall, that may be supposed to be a coffin; with a mourner at the head and one at the foot?” she whispered.
He bowed his head again: very gravely.
“Then I saw it last night. I did indeed. I was sitting under the ash-trees, and I saw a strange shadow in the moonlight that I had never seen before——”