himself snugly in, and burying himself up to the chin in the
bed-clothes, he lay looking at the fire, and listening to the wind, and
chuckling to think how knowingly he had come over his friend the
Marquis for a night's lodgings: and so he fell asleep.

He had not taken above half of his first nap, when he was awakened by
the clock of the chateau, in the turret over his chamber, which struck
midnight. It was just such an old clock as ghosts are fond of. It had a
deep, dismal tone, and struck so slowly and tediously that my uncle
thought it would never have done. He counted and counted till he was
confident he counted thirteen, and then it stopped.

The fire had burnt low, and the blaze of the last faggot was almost
expiring, burning in small blue flames, which now and then lengthened
up into little white gleams. My uncle lay with his eyes half closed,
and his nightcap drawn almost down to his nose. His fancy was already
wandering, and began to mingle up the present scene with the crater of
Vesuvius, the French opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly's chop-house in
London, and all the farrago of noted places with which the brain of a
traveller is crammed--in a word, he was just falling asleep.

Suddenly he was aroused by the sound of foot-steps that appeared to be
slowly pacing along the corridor. My uncle, as I have often heard him
say himself, was a man not easily frightened; so he lay quiet,
supposing that this might be some other guest; or some servant on his
way to bed. The footsteps, however, approached the door; the door
gently opened; whether of its own accord, or whether pushed open, my
uncle could not distinguish:--a figure all in white glided in. It was a
female, tall and stately in person, and of a most commanding air. Her
dress was of an ancient fashion, ample in volume and sweeping the