the coffin-lid had slowly raised and clattered over. And as if to
pile terror for her, a figure rose from the box, and, sitting up,
looked round with a grim smile; and the figure was the figure of
a man whom she knew to be dead, a man who had died by her
contriving - it was the figure of Garnache. It was Garnache as
he had been on the occasion of his first coming to Condillac, as
he had been on the day they had sought his life in this very room.
How well she knew that great hooked nose and the bright, steely
blue eyes, the dark brown hair, ash-coloured at the temples where
age had paled it, and the fierce, reddish mustachios, bristling
above the firm mouth and long, square chin.

She stared and stared, her beautiful face livid and distorted,
till there was no beauty to be seen in it, what time the Abbot
regarded her coldly and Tressan, behind her, turned almost sick
with terror. But not the terror of ghosts was it afflicted him. He
saw in Garnache a man who was still of the quick - a man who by
some miracle had escaped the fate to which they supposed him to
have succumbed; and his terror was the terror of the reckoning
which that man would ask.

After a moment's pause, as if relishing the sensation he had created,
Garnache rose to his feet and leapt briskly to the ground. There
was nothing ghostly about the thud with which he alighted on his
feet before her. A part of her terror left her; yet not quite all.
She saw that she had but a man to deal with, yet she began to
realize that this man was very terrible.

"Garnache again!" she gasped.