It was night.  A cold wind blew over the clergyman’s head; he opened his eyes, and it was just as if the moon shone into his room.  But the moon did not shine.  It was a figure which stood before his bed—­he saw the spirit of his deceased wife.  She looked on him so singularly afflicted; it seemed as though she would say something.

The man raised himself half erect in bed, and stretched his arms out towards her.

“Not even to thee is granted everlasting peace.  Thou dost suffer; thou, the best, the most pious!”

And the dead bent her head in confirmation of his words, and laid her hand on her breast.

“And can I procure you peace in the grave?”

“Yes!” it sounded in his ear.

“And how?”

“Give me a hair, but a single hair of the head of that sinner, whose fire will never be quenched; that sinner whom God will cast down into hell, to everlasting torment.”

“Yes; so easily thou canst be liberated, thou pure, thou pious one!” said he.

“Then follow me,” said the dead; “it is so granted us.  Thou canst be by my side, wheresoever thy thoughts will.  Invisible to mankind, we stand in their most secret places; but thou must point with a sure hand to the one destined to eternal punishment, and ere the cock crow he must be found.”

And swift, as if borne on the wings of thought, they were in the great city, and the names of the dying sinners shone from the walls of the houses in letters of fire:  “Arrogance, Avarice, Drunkenness, Voluptuousness;” in short, sin’s whole seven-coloured arch.

“Yes, in there, as I thought it, as I knew it,” said the clergyman, “are housed those condemned to eternal fire.”

And they stood before the splendidly-illumined portico, where the broad stairs were covered with carpets and flowers, and the music of the dance sounded through the festal saloons.  The porter stood there in silk and velvet, with a large silver-headed stick.

“Our ball can match with the King’s,” said he, and turned towards the crowd in the street—­his magnificent thoughts were visible in his whole person.  “Poor devils! who stare in at the portico, you are altogether ragamuffins, compared to me!”

“Arrogance,” said the dead; “dost thou see him?”

“Him!” repeated the clergyman; “he is a simpleton—­a fool only, and will not be condemned to eternal fire and torment.”

“A fool only,” sounded through the whole house of Arrogance.

And they flew into the four bare walls of Avarice, where skinny, meagre, shivering with cold, hungry and thirsty, the old man clung fast with all his thoughts to his gold.  They saw how he, as in a fever, sprang from his wretched pallet, and took a loose stone out of the wall.  There lay gold coins in a stocking-foot; he fumbled at his ragged tunic, in which gold coins were sewed fast, and his moist fingers trembled.

“He is ill:  it is insanity; encircled by fear and evil dreams.”