Tears were shed by all the ladies when they were told of the execution of poor Erick Dickson, and they deplored the fate of the faithful Helen Carnegie. Atherton had a long conversation with Constance, but they could not arrange any plans for the future. At last the hour came for separation for the night, and it was in a very depressed state of mind that he sought his chamber.
It was a large apartment, panelled with oak, and contained a massive oak bedstead with huge twisted columns, and a large canopy. Though a wood fire blazed on the hearth, and cast a glow on the panels, the appearance of the room was exceedingly gloomy.
"'Tis the best bedroom in the house, and I have therefore prepared it for you," observed old Markland, who had conducted him to the room. "You will easily recognise the portrait over the mantelpiece. I have not removed it, as I have not received orders to do so."
Atherton looked up at the picture indicated by the old butler, and could not repress a shudder as he perceived it was a portrait of his uncle, Sir Richard.
However, he made no remark, and shortly afterwards Markland quitted the room.
Seating himself in an easy-chair by the fire, Atherton began to reflect upon the many strange events that had occurred to him, and he almost began to regret that he had ever joined the unlucky expedition.
While indulging these meditations, he fell into a sort of doze, and fancied that a figure slowly approached him.
How the person had entered the room he could not tell, for he had not heard the door open, nor any sound of footsteps. The figure seemed to glide towards him, rather than walk, and, as it drew nearer, he recognised the ghastly and cadaverous countenance.
Transfixed with horror, he could neither stir nor speak. For some time the phantom stood there, with its melancholy gaze fixed upon him.
At last a lugubrious voice, that sounded as if it came from the grave, reached his ear.