At length he spoke; without moving or lifting up his face.

"Here again!" he said.

"Here again," replied the Phantom.

"I see you in the fire," said the haunted man; "I hear you in
music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night."

The Phantom moved its head, assenting.

"Why do you come, to haunt me thus?"

"I come as I am called," replied the Ghost.

"No. Unbidden," exclaimed the Chemist.

"Unbidden be it," said the Spectre. "It is enough. I am here."

Hitherto the light of the fire had shone on the two faces--if the
dread lineaments behind the chair might be called a face--both
addressed towards it, as at first, and neither looking at the
other. But, now, the haunted man turned, suddenly, and stared upon
the Ghost. The Ghost, as sudden in its motion, passed to before
the chair, and stared on him.

The living man, and the animated image of himself dead, might so
have looked, the one upon the other. An awful survey, in a lonely
and remote part of an empty old pile of building, on a winter
night, with the loud wind going by upon its journey of mystery--