On being assured of this, the panic, mastering him before, resumed its
sway; it gave him a giant's strength to escape the fancied, grisly
pursuers, and he moved the whole series of bars far enough away to
enable him to crawl through the gap.

He stood, exhausted, panting, glad of the relief from the waking
nightmare which the darkness encouraged. His weakness could be accounted
for, as his wandering had lasted long; the syncope could not be brief
since nearly thirty hours must have transpired from his rush out of the
variety music-hall.

Before him, for at his back stood the chapel for services, stretched out
the vast cemetery. Some of the cracked, dilapidated tombs dated back to
1600; others marked the addition in 1788 to the original God's-acre. All
was hushed; it was difficult to imagine a phantom where neglect seemed
to rule. It was not in this olden part that descendants of the departed
flocked on All Saints' Day to decorate the mausoleums with evergreens,
plaster images and artificial immortelle garlands. Except for a
screeching-sparrow, which his first steps dislodged, not a sign of life
appeared in this town around which the living city slept as quietly.

His eyes clearing, he believed he descried the gateway and, sure that so
large a _campo santo_ would have a warder in hourly attendance, he made
his way, deviating as the tombs compelled, toward the entrance. To his
surprise, all was still there, and though a lamp burned in the little
stone lodge, it was certainly untenanted. The gate was ajar; there was
no fear of the tenants flitting out bodily for a night's excursion.

Claudius was dying for refreshment and he was not fastidious about