One skeleton, tripping behind;
Though not by his comrades the trick had been played--
Now its odour he snuffed in the wind:
He rushed to the door--but fell back with a shock;
For well for the wight of the bell and the clock,
The sign of the cross it displayed.

But the shroud he must have--not a moment he stays;
Ere a man had begun but to think,
On the Gothic-work his fingers quickly he lays,
And climbs up its chain, link by link.
Now woe to the warder--for sure he must die--
To see, like a long-legged spider, draw nigh
The skeleton's clattering form:

And pale was his visage, and thick came his breath;
The garb, alas! why did he touch?
How sick grew his soul as the garment of death
The skeleton caught in his clutch--
The moon disappeared, and the skies changed to dun,
And louder than thunder the church-bell tolled one--
The spectre fell tumbling to bits!



[and one of the prose tales, abridged:]


BEATRICE ADONY AND JULIUS ALVINZI.