"The nightmare Life-in-Death was he,
That thicks men's blood with cold."

Brandon stood while his blood ran chill, and his breath came fast.

If that Form had suddenly thrown off its sandy coverlet and risen to his
feet, and advanced with extended hand to meet him, he would not have
been surprised, nor would he have been one whit more horror-stricken.

Brandon stood fixed. He could not move. He was like one in a nightmare.
His limbs seemed rigid. A spell was upon him. His eyes seemed to fasten
themselves on the hollow cavities of the Form before him. But under that
tremendous pressure he did not altogether sink. Slowly his spirit rose;
a thought of flight came, but it was instantly rejected. The next moment
he drew a long breath. "I'm an infernal fool and coward," he muttered.
He took three steps forward, and stood beside the Figure. He laid his
hand firmly upon the head; the hair fell off at his touch. "Poor devil,"
said he, "I'll bury your bones at any rate." The spell was broken, and
Brandon was himself again.

Once more Brandon walked out into the open air, but this time there was
not a vestige of horror left. He had encountered what he dreaded, and it
was now in his eyes only a mass of bones. Yet there was much to think
of, and the struggle which had raged within him had exhausted him.

The sea-breeze played about him and soon restored his strength. What
next to do was the question, and after some deliberation he decided at
once to remove the skeleton and bury it.