He had seen the heavy curtains stir and shake as if the dead body they concealed had turned over and sat up.  Byrne, who thought the world could hold no more terrors in store, felt his hair stir at the roots.  He gripped the arms of the chair, his jaw fell, and the sweat broke out on his brow while his dry tongue clove suddenly to the roof of his mouth.  Again the curtains stirred, but did not open.  “Don’t, Tom!” Byrne made effort to shout, but all he heard was a slight moan such as an uneasy sleeper may make.  He felt that his brain was going, for, now, it seemed to him that the ceiling over the bed had moved, had slanted, and came level again—­and once more the closed curtains swayed gently as if about to part.

Byrne closed his eyes not to see the awful apparition of the seaman’s corpse coming out animated by an evil spirit.  In the profound silence of the room he endured a moment of frightful agony, then opened his eyes again.  And he saw at once that the curtains remained closed still, but that the ceiling over the bed had risen quite a foot.  With the last gleam of reason left to him he understood that it was the enormous baldaquin over the bed which was coming down, while the curtains attached to it swayed softly, sinking gradually to the floor.  His drooping jaw snapped to—­and half rising in his chair he watched mutely the noiseless descent of the monstrous canopy.  It came down in short smooth rushes till lowered half way or more, when it took a run and settled swiftly its turtle-back shape with the deep border piece fitting exactly the edge of the bedstead.  A slight crack or two of wood were heard, and the overpowering stillness of the room resumed its sway.

Byrne stood up, gasped for breath, and let out a cry of rage and dismay, the first sound which he is perfectly certain did make its way past his lips on this night of terrors.  This then was the death he had escaped!  This was the devilish artifice of murder poor Tom’s soul had perhaps tried from beyond the border to warn him of.  For this was how he had died.  Byrne was certain he had heard the voice of the seaman, faintly distinct in his familiar phrase, “Mr. Byrne!  Look out, sir!” and again uttering words he could not make out.  But then the distance separating the living from the dead is so great!  Poor Tom had tried.  Byrne ran to the bed and attempted to lift up, to push off the horrible lid smothering the body.  It resisted his efforts, heavy as lead, immovable like a tombstone.  The rage of vengeance made him desist; his head buzzed with chaotic thoughts of extermination, he turned round the room as if he could find neither his weapons nor the way out; and all the time he stammered awful menaces. . .