“No, I’m not,” said Ned. “I made it burn, and I’ve been looking at all sorts of things. These pictures are just wonderful.”
“Oh!” she said, “I would not be in this room in the dark for anything! I know all those things in that book, though. They are hideous! But they say that that suit of armor has the worst kind of ghost in it.”
“Maybe it has,” said Ned. “I don’t believe he can get out, anyhow. He’s just stuck in it. I’d rather wear the clothes I have on.”
“Well,” she replied, “mother sent me to find if you were here, and it is dreadfully late—”
“Oh, yes!” interrupted Ned. “I suppose it is time for me to go to bed. I’ll go, but I mean to see all there is in this library, señorita. I won’t try to read it all. I don’t care for ghosts, but I’d like to see one.”
“I do not care for them in the daytime, either,” she told him. “But old Margarita, the Tlascalan, says that they come at night and sit here and tell stories of all the Mexican idol gods. All of them hate us, too, because we turned them out of their temples, and I hate them.”
“I’m glad they are gone, anyhow,” said Ned, but it was really time to go, and he carried some of the most brilliant of those illustrations into some of his dreams that night.