And the stormy surf?
The phantom pale sets his blackened foot
On the fresh green turf.”
Then raising his voice solemnly, he said:
“You asked to see your friend, Francis Villiers, who was drowned, three years ago, off the coast of South America—what do you see?”
“I see,” replied the student, “a white light arising near the window; but it has no form; it is like an uncertain cloud.”
We—the spectators—remained profoundly silent.
“Are you afraid?” asked the merchant, in a loud voice.
“I am not,” replied the student, firmly.
After a moment’s silence, the pedler stamped three times on the ground, and sang: