And now I am about to recount an occurrence so strange and unearthly that I have sometimes since doubted whether it was not the creation of my own fancy; whether or not I really saw what I am about to relate. I can offer no reasonable hypothesis that would account for such a physical impossibility—something that we are taught to sneer at—I can only say with others who have trod before us: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in thy philosophy." I can only set down in black and white what really took place, as best I can.
I know not how long I slept, whether one hour or five; I only know that I was awakened by that peculiar sensation which thou hast felt in thy sleep, when conscious that someone is gazing intently at thee. Rubbing my eyes, I looked around the room.
The storm clouds had passed away as rapidly as they had come, and the moonlight, streaming through the window, bathed the whole room in a flood of light, and lit it up as brightly as could the noonday sun.
There, standing cold and grim and gray near the bed, some six or eight paces away, clothed in a coat of antique armor, leaning upon his great bloody sword, his eyes fixed sternly upon me, was the figure of Geoffrey Winchester, first Lord Richmond.
There is a tradition in the family, handed down from father to son, from generation to generation, which runs somewhat like this: When William the Conqueror landed in England, he brought with him from Normandy a certain stout, sturdy, and gallant gentleman—this same Geoffrey Winchester—whom he held in high esteem for his stout arm and undaunted courage.
At the great battle of Hastings, the death-blow to so many noble Saxon scions of great families, this gentleman, Geoffrey, bore himself with great valor. Twice was William beaten to his knees by the furious assaults of the desperate Saxons, and twice did Geoffrey come to the rescue, and with his great two-handled sword clear a path around the King.
And so after the battle was over, William had called the Norman to him, and had asked him what he would have, telling him that he should have what he willed, even to the half of his kingdom. And Winchester had answered, so the legend ran, that he cared not for earthly honors, but he would that he might be able to come to the rescue of those of his own blood, when in some danger from their foes.
The King, struck by the strangeness of his request, had called to him a pious bishop who had fought by his side that day, and recounted to him what the soldier would have.
The holy man of God had turned to Geoffrey Winchester, and bidding him kneel, had prayed to the God of Battle that he grant the request of Winchester's heart, and then blessing him, had said: "Thou hast chosen wisely. So be it. In the ages to come, when thou hast long crumbled into the dust, still thou shalt have the power to appear once to those of thine own blood when they are in sore distress, and warn them of danger. Go thou in peace."