“And what did he do?” ask I, impressed, despite myself, by her passionate earnestness; “when did you first see him?”
“I was asleep,” she said—“at least I thought so—and suddenly I opened my eyes, and he was there—there”—pointing again with trembling finger—“between the window and the bed.”
“What was he doing? Was he walking about?”
“He was standing as still as stone—I never saw any live thing so still—looking at me; he never called or beckoned, or moved a finger, but his eyes commanded me to come to him, as the eyes of the mesmeriser at Penrith did.” She stops, breathing heavily. I can hear her heart’s loud and rapid beats.
“And you?” I say, pressing her more closely to my side, and smoothing her troubled hair.
“I hated it,” she cries, excitedly; “I loathed it—abhorred it. I was ice-cold with fear and horror, but—I felt myself going to him.”
“Yes?”
“And then I shrieked out to you, and you came running, and caught fast hold of me, and held me tight at first—quite tight—but presently I felt your hold slacken—slacken—and though I longed to stay with you, though I was mad with fright, yet I felt myself pulling strongly away from you—going to him; and he—he stood there always looking—looking—and then I gave one last loud shriek, and I suppose I awoke—and it was a dream!”
“I never heard of a clearer case of nightmare,” say I, stoutly; “that vile Wiertz! I should like to see his whole Musée burnt by the hands of the hangman to-morrow.”
She shakes her head. “It had nothing to say to Wiertz; what it meant I do not know, but——”