It was on a cold, bleak, stormy, November evening, when this news was brought, by a Brae-Marr-man, to the laird’s tower.  He was wise and prudent, and he would give no ear to a tale so lightly told:  but his beautiful daughter-in-law, sanguine for her husband’s sake, cherished reports that brightened all her prospects.  She retired to her chamber, almost hoping that another day might see it enlivened by his presence, without whom life to her was a dreary blank.  She was lodged in a small apartment on the third story of the tower, opening straight from a narrow passage at the head of the winding stairs.  It had two small windows, which looked on the paved courtyard of the castle; and beyond, to what was then a bare meadow, and the river.  The moon gave little light, and she turned from the gloomy prospect to the ample hearth, on which the bright logs were blazing.  Her heart was full, and her mind so restless, that after her maidens left her, she continued to pace up and down her little chamber, unwilling to retire to rest.  At length she threw herself upon her bed, exhausted by the eagerness of her feelings, and in the agitation of her ideas she forgot to say her prayers.  Yet she slept, and calmly, but her sleep was short.  She awakened suddenly, and starting half up, listened anxiously for some minutes.  The wind blew strongly round the old tower, and a thick shower of sleet was driving fast against the casements; but, in the pauses of the storm, she thought she heard distinctly, though at a distance, the tramp of a horse at his speed.  She bent forward and watched the sound.  It came nearer—­it grew louder—­it gallopped over the hard ground, and approached with the swiftness of lightning.  She gasped and trembled—­it was he, it must be he,—­she knew the long firm bound of her husband’s charger.  Its rapid feet struck loud on the pavement of the courtyard below, and in an instant dropt dead below the great door of the castle.  She had neither power to breathe, nor to move, but she listened for the call of the porter’s name, and the jar of the chains and bolts which secured the door.  She heard nothing—­she grew bewildered, and tried to rise to call for succour—­but a spell was on her to keep her down.  At length, from the very bottom of the winding stair, came the sound of a firm foot, ascending regularly step by step, without a pause in its motion, the several stories.  It rang on the stone passage adjoining her apartment, and stept with a loud tread at her door.  No lock was turned, no hinge was opened, but a rushing wind swept through the room.  Her fire had burned away, and she had neither lamp nor taper by her, but as she started up in an agony of terror, the heavy logs in her wide chimney fell of themselves, and lighting by the fall, sent forth a blaze into the chamber.  Almost frantic with fear, she seized with one hand the curtains of her bed, and darting a look of horror, she saw, seated by the hearth, a figure in martial array, without a head; it held its arms out towards