he never had any difficulty in recalling them to his imagination; and he
and I had afterwards an opportunity of verifying them in a remarkable
manner. He wore a long cut-away coat of green cloth with an edge of gold
embroidery, and a white satin waistcoat figured with rose-sprigs, a
full cravat of rich lace, knee-breeches of buff silk, and stockings of
the same. His shoes were of polished black leather with heavy silver
buckles, and his costume in general recalled that worn a century ago.
As my brother gazed at him, he got up, putting his hands on the arms
of the chair to raise himself, and causing the creaking so often heard
before. The hands forced themselves on my brother's notice: they were
very white, with the long delicate fingers of a musician. He showed a
considerable height; and still keeping his eyes on the floor, walked
with an ordinary gait towards the end of the bookcase at the side of the
room farthest from the window. He reached the bookcase, and then John
suddenly lost sight of him. The figure did not fade gradually, but went
out, as it were, like the flame of a suddenly extinguished candle.

The room was now filled with the clear light of the summer morning: the
whole vision had lasted but a few seconds, but my brother knew that
there was no possibility of his having been mistaken, that the mystery
of the creaking chair was solved, that he had seen the man who had come
evening by evening for a month past to listen to the rhythm of the
_Gagliarda_. Terribly disturbed, he sat for some time half dreading and
half expecting a return of the figure; but all remained unchanged: he
saw nothing, nor did he dare to challenge its reappearance by playing
again the _Gagliarda_, which seemed to have so strange an attraction for
it. At last, in the full sunlight of a late June morning at Oxford, he
heard the steps of early pedestrians on the pavement below his windows,
the cry of a milkman, and other sounds which showed the world was awake.
It was after six o'clock, and going to his bedroom he flung himself on