“What—­what was it?” she gasped; “real, or a delusion?  Oh, God, what was it?  A figure tall and gaunt, endeavouring from the outside to unclasp the window.  I saw it.  That flash of lightning revealed it to me.  It stood the whole length of the window.”

There was a lull of the wind.  The hail was not falling so thickly—­moreover, it now fell, what there was of it, straight, and yet a strange clattering sound came upon the glass of that long window.  It could not be a delusion—­she is awake, and she hears it.  What can produce it?  Another flash of lightning—­another shriek—­there could be now no delusion.

A tall figure is standing on the ledge immediately outside the long window.  It is its finger-nails upon the glass that produces the sound so like the hail, now that the hail has ceased.  Intense fear paralysed the limbs of that beautiful girl.  That one shriek is all she can utter—­with hands clasped, a face of marble, a heart beating so wildly in her bosom, that each moment it seems as if it would break its confines, eyes distended and fixed upon the window, she waits, froze with horror.  The pattering and clattering of the nails continue.  No word is spoken, and now she fancies she can trace the darker form of that figure against the window, and she can see the long arms moving to and fro, feeling for some mode of entrance.  What strange light is that which now gradually creeps up into the air? red and terrible—­brighter and brighter it grows.  The lightning has set fire to a mill, and the reflection of the rapidly consuming building falls upon that long window.  There can be no mistake.  The figure is there, still feeling for an entrance, and clattering against the glass with its long nails, that appear as if the growth of many years had been untouched.  She tries to scream again but a choking sensation comes over her, and she cannot.  It is too dreadful—­she tries to move—­each limb seems weighed down by tons of lead—­she can but in a hoarse faint whisper cry,—­

“Help—­help—­help—­help!”

And that one word she repeats like a person in a dream.  The red glare of the fire continues.  It throws up the tall gaunt figure in hideous relief against the long window.  It shows, too, upon the one portrait that is in the chamber, and that portrait appears to fix its eyes upon the attempting intruder, while the flickering light from the fire makes it look fearfully life-like.  A small pane of glass is broken, and the form from without introduces a long gaunt hand, which seems utterly destitute of flesh.  The fastening is removed, and one-half of the window, which opens like folding doors, is swung wide open upon its hinges.

And yet now she could not scream—­she could not move.  “Help!—­help!—­help!” was all she could say.  But, oh, that look of terror that sat upon her face, it was dreadful—­a look to haunt the memory for a lifetime—­a look to obtrude itself upon the happiest moments, and turn them to bitterness.