On a cold and gloomy evening John entered the closet, found the manuscript, and with a feeling of superstitious awe, began to read it.  The task was a hard one, for the manuscript was discoloured and mutilated, and much was quite indecipherable.

John was able to gather, however, that it was the narrative of an Englishman, named Stanton, who had travelled in Spain in the seventeenth century.  On one night of storm, Stanton had seen carried past him the bodies of two lovers who had been killed by lightning.  As he watched, a man had stepped forward, had looked calmly at the bodies, and had burst into a horrible demoniac laugh.  Stanton saw the man several times, always in circumstances of horror; he learnt that his name was Melmoth.  This being exercised a kind of fascination over Stanton, who searched for him far and wide.  Ultimately, Stanton was confined in a madhouse by relatives who wanted to secure his property; and from the madhouse he was offered, but refused, release by Melmoth as a result of some bargain, the nature of which was not revealed.

After reading this story, John Melmoth raised his eyes, and he started involuntarily as they encountered those of the portrait.  With a shudder, he tore the portrait from its frame, and rushed into his room, where he flung its fragments on the fire.

The mansion was close by the iron-bound coast of Wicklow, in Ireland, and on the next night John was summoned forth by the news that a vessel was in distress.  He saw immediately that the ship was doomed.  She lay beating upon a rock, against which the tempest hurled breakers that dashed their foam to a height of thirty feet.

In the midst of the tumult John descried, standing a little above him on the rock, a figure that showed neither sympathy nor terror, uttered no sound, offered no help.  A few minutes afterwards he distinctly heard the words, “Let them perish!”

Just then a tremendous wave dashing over the vessel extorted a cry of horror from the spectators.  When the cry had ceased, Melmoth heard a laugh that chilled his blood.  It was from the figure that stood above him.  He recalled Stanton’s narrative.  In a blind fury of eagerness, he began to climb the rock; but a stone gave way in his grasp, and he was hurled into the roaring deep below.

It was several days before he recovered his senses, and he then learned that he had been rescued by the one survivor of the wreck, a Spaniard, who had clutched at John and dragged him ashore with him.  As soon as John had recovered somewhat, he hastened to thank his deliverer, who was lodged in the mansion.  Having expressed his gratitude, Melmoth was about to retire, when the Spaniard detained him.

“Senor,” he said, “I understand your name is”—­he gasped—­“Melmoth?”

“It is.”

“Had you,” said the Spaniard rapidly, “a relative who was, about one hundred and forty years ago, said to be in Spain?”