He rose, and finding his way to the table groped for a box of matches
that he had noticed lying there, and lighted his lamp, when, looking
at his watch, he found the hour to be half-past three. Before going to
bed again he thought he would see what night it was. Accordingly,
he opened the curtains and shutters and gazed forth. The moon had
disappeared--which was not remarkable, as it was past her hour for
retiring--and the night was very dark and hazy. But a remarkable
object met his eye. But from an angle of the house, and toward the
corner of the field which had been the site of the ancient monastery,
there stood a column five or six feet in height of what through
the haze appeared luminous vapor. It seemed such an altogether
unaccountable thing, standing there, that Edwin pushed the window open
and rubbed his eyes to get a better sight of it. He expected it would
disappear in some way almost immediately, but it did not: there it
stood, perfectly still and perfectly distinct, at the corner of the
field, where there was absolutely nothing to cause it. He watched it
for a considerable time, and as his eye got accustomed to peering into
the darkness, he could see there was nothing near it, and not a sound
disturbed the stillness of the night.

"That's not a trick," he thought: "no one would think it worth while
to play a trick, certain of being without an audience either to see or
hear it. I question even if it is the abbot himself; or if he likes to
air himself there in the middle of a winter night, he must be too hot
at home, if not too dull."

A filmy mantle of pale white vapor is surely a more likely garment for
a spirit to snatch up and wrap round him when about to indulge in an
earthly tour than the conventional and traditionary white sheet: