Has he been living here? Apparently not; for see, he has a pair of long
riding-boots on, coming up to the knees; they are splashed with mud, as
if he had ridden hastily through foul ways; the spurs are on the heel.
A riding-dress upon him. Ha! is that blood upon the hand which he
clasps to his forehead.

What more do you perceive? Nothing, the light is so dim; but only we
wonder where is the door, and whence the light comes. There is a
strange abundance of spiders, too, we perceive; spinning their webs
here, as if they would entrammel something in them. A mouse has run
across the floor, apparently, but it is too dim to detect him, or to
detect anything beyond the limits of a very doubtful vagueness. We do
not even know whether what we seem to have seen is really so; whether
the man is young, or old, or what his surroundings are; and there is
something so disagreeable in this seclusion, this stifled atmosphere,
that we should be loath to remain here long enough to make ourselves
certain of what was a mystery. Let us forth into the broad, genial
daylight, for there is magic, there is a devilish, subtile influence,
in this chamber; which, I have reason to believe, makes it dangerous to
remain here. There is a spell on the threshold. Heaven keep us safe
from it!

Hark! has a door unclosed? Is there another human being in the room? We
have now become so accustomed to the dim medium that we distinguish a
man of mean exterior, with a look of habitual subservience that seems
like that of an English serving-man, or a person in some menial
situation; decent, quiet, neat, softly-behaved, but yet with a certain
hard and questionable presence, which we would not well like to have
near us in the room.