which he cannot command; during which no person ever saw him, and during
which he never was employed in any terrestrial occupation."

"And this hour is?"

"The twelfth in the night. When the clock strikes twelve at midnight
he ceases to belong to the living. In whatever place he is he must
immediately be gone; whatever business he is engaged in he must
instantly leave it. The terrible sound of the hour of midnight tears
him from the arms of friendship, wrests him from the altar, and would
drag him away even in the agonies of death. Whither he then goes, or
what he is then engaged in, is a secret to every one. No person
ventures to interrogate, still less to follow him. His features, at
this dread ful hour, assume a sternness of expression so gloomy and
terrifying that no person has courage sufficient to look him in the
face, or to speak a word to him. However lively the conversation may
have been, a dead silence immediately succeeds it, and all around wait
for his return in respectful silence without venturing to quit their
seats, or to open the door through which he has passed."

"Does nothing extraordinary appear in his person when he returns?"
inquired one of our party.

"Nothing, except that he seems pale and exhausted, like a man who has
just suffered a painful operation, or received some disastrous
intelligence. Some pretend to have seen drops of blood on his linen,
but with what degree of veracity I cannot affirm."

"Did no person ever attempt to conceal the approach of this hour from
him, or endeavor to preoccupy his mind in such a manner as to make him