It was not possible to reject the evidence of their senses. Whatever might
be the hidden cause of the marvel, the dark key of the mystery, the shadow
which had just appeared in the angle of the cloister was clearly the
authentic image, the _vera effigies_, the very person of Adrian Baker. The
astonished eyes of Berta, of her father, and of the nurse could not refuse
to believe it.

His fair curls, his pale brow, the outlines of his figure, his air, his
glance, his voice--all were there before the amazed eyes of Berta, her
father, and the nurse.

Now, was this a fantastic creation of their troubled senses? Was it a
phantom of the brain, or a reality? Did all three suffer at the same time
the same hallucination? The fixed thought of all three was Adrian Baker--
and the senses often counterfeit the reality of our vain imaginings. The
state of their minds, the place, the hour--and then, the air produces
sounds that deceive; the light and the darkness mingling together in the
mysterious hour of twilight people the solitude with strange visions. And
in the midst of those ruins, which began to assume fantastic forms, and
which seemed to move, in the gathering shades of twilight, Berta, her
father, and the nurse might well believe themselves in the presence of a
spectre evoked there by their presence.

But the fact was, that the shadow, instead of vanishing, instead of
changing its shape, as happens with chimeras of the brain, assumed before
their eyes a more distinct form, more definite outlines, according as he
approached the group.

Reaching them, he took gently in his the hands Berta held out to him. His