trepidation, I confess; for how should I find my way back? But the worst
result likely to ensue was, that I should have to spend the night
without knowing where; for with the first glimmer of morning, I should
be able to return to my room. At length, after wandering into several
rooms and out again, my hand fell on a latched door. I opened it, and
entered a long corridor, with many windows on one side. Broad strips of
moonlight lay slantingly across the narrow floor, divided by regular
intervals of shade.

I started, and my heart swelled; for I saw a movement somewhere--I could
neither tell where, nor of what: I was only aware of motion. I stood in
the first shadow, and gazed, but saw nothing. I sped across the light to
the next shadow, and stood again, looking with fearful fixedness of gaze
towards the far end of the corridor. Suddenly a white form glimmered and
vanished. I crossed to the next shadow. Again a glimmer and vanishing,
but nearer. Nerving myself to the utmost, I ceased the stealthiness of
my movements, and went forward, slowly and steadily. A tall form,
apparently of a woman, dressed in a long white robe, appeared in one of
the streams of light, threw its arms over its head, gave a wild
cry--which, notwithstanding its wildness and force, had a muffled sound,
as if many folds, either of matter or of space, intervened--and fell at
full length along the moonlight. Amidst the thrill of agony which shook
me at the cry, I rushed forward, and, kneeling beside the prostrate
figure, discovered that, unearthly as was the scream which had preceded
her fall, it was the Lady Alice. I saw the fact in a moment: the Lady
Alice was a somnambulist. Startled by the noise of my advance, she had
awaked; and the usual terror and fainting had followed. She was cold and
motionless as death. What was to be done? If I called, the probability
was that no one would hear me; or if any one should hear--but I need not
follow the course of my thought, as I tried in vain to recover the poor