"Don't you hear it?" he asked.
I listened, to appease him.
"No."
"Not the horse?"
I listened more attentively.
Yes—the old rattle—the old sound of a horse's hoofs. It was coming up the stairs.
Slowly the door opened—slowly the light I had seen before grew in the darkened air—and into the room rode the Stone Rider, rigid, erect, with the unearthly radiance all around him.
He came up to the foot of the bed, and slowly lifted the vizor of his helmet, disclosing a glistening skull—and, as I looked, the skull became the face in the portrait over the mantelpiece of the study at Salitz. It was too evident that Siebach recognised it. His eyes were fixed on the apparition; his thin features were grey, and drawn with fear. For a moment he remained motionless, staring at it; then he threw up his arms with an awful cry, and fell back.
Slowly the Stone Rider drew the mailed gauntlet from his right hand. For a moment he poised it deliberately in the air, then flung it full in Siebach's face.
A shudder ran through the prostrate figure, but it did not move again; and the Stone Rider turned his horse and rode from the room. The light followed him, and we were again in semi-darkness.