But no ghost appeared. A very human figure, however, did so. It looked
down upon us for a moment, and mistaking our rapt gaze at the
antiquities--of which it did not form a part--for mere vulgar curiosity,
held up a reproving hand. Then, catching sight of H.C., it darted
forward, looked breathlessly into the night, and seemed also mesmerised
as by a revelation.
We quietly went our way, leaving the spell to work itself out. Our
footsteps echoed in the silent night, with the running accompaniment of
a double-shuffle from Misery. No other sound broke the stillness; we
were absolutely alone with the ancient houses, the stars and the sky. It
might have been a Mediaeval City of the Dead, unpeopled since the days of
its youth. Our candle burned on in the hand of Andre; our reflections
danced and played about us: one hears of the Dance of Death--this was
the Dance of Ghosts--a natural sequence; ghostly shadows flitted out of
every doorway, down every turning.
At last we emerged on to an open space, partly filled by a modern
building with a hideous roof, evidently the market place. Here we
ascended to a higher level. Ancient outlines still surrounded us, but
were interrupted by modern ones also. Square roofs and straight lines
broke the continuity of the picturesque gabled roofs and latticed
windows. Ichabod may be written upon the lintels of all that is ancient
and disappearing, all that is modern and hideous.
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