all, the man that did that murder walks! It is not always deadly still here; sometimes there ‘s a clanking of chains! And a bodkin through the tongue can’t keep the dead from wailing! And the murdered man walks, too; in his shroud he follows the other — Is n’t that something white in the distance yonder?”

My lord’s four knaves looked down the arcade of trees, and saw the something white as plainly as if it had been verily there. Each moment the wood grew darker, — a thing in nature, since the sun outside was swiftly sinking to the horizon. But to those to whom that tale had been told it was a darkening unearthly and portentous, bringing with it a colder air and a deepened silence.

“Oh, Sir Thomas Dale, Sir Thomas Dale!”