"'Tis not robbers," she said, sinking her voice to a terrified whisper. "'Tis ghosts, and witches."
Jerningham laughed in derision of the idea.
"I tell you it's true. I know what I say," she went on. "Spirits walk there every night; there are such sounds—!"
"Poh!" he interrupted. "The creaking of the timbers; the moving of the casements in the wind; the flapping of the arras; the gnawing and running of rats and mice."
"'Tis more than that. There be things I see; forms that pass swiftly; they appear for a moment, then melt away."
"'Tis in your dreams you see them."
"I know when I am awake; besides, often I see them when I am not abed."
"They are the tricks of moonlight, then; or of rays that steal in at cracks and crevices; or they are the moving of arras and such in a faint breeze."
"I know better. Think not to put me off so. I'll not stay there alone with old Jeremy. I cannot bear it—such fright! Good God, what nights I've passed!"
Jerningham quieted her with a gesture of caution, as he looked fearfully around to see if her excited manner was observed.