the light of the moon.  He immediately looked about him, but except the usual inanimate objects of nature, he could see nothing.  Whatever it is, thought he, or, rather, whoever it is, he has thought proper to remain undiscovered in the darkness.  I shall now bid him good-night, and proceed on my way home.  He accordingly moved on once more, when, to his utter astonishment, he heard the footsteps again, precisely within the same distance of him as before.

“Tut,” said he, “I now perceive what the matter with me is.  This is a mere hallucination, occasioned by a disordered state of the nerves; and as he spoke he returned his pistols into his breast pockets, where he usually wore them, and once more resumed his journey.  There was, however, something in the sound of the footsteps—­something so hollow—­so cold, as it were, and so unearthly, that he could not throw off the unaccountable impression which it made upon him, infidel and sceptic as he was upon all supernatural intimations and appearances.  At length, he proceeded, or rather they proceeded, onward until he arrived within sight of what he supposed to be the haunted house.  He paused a few moments, and was not now so insensible to its lonely and dismal aspect.  It was a two-storied house, and nothing could surpass the spectral appearance of the moon’s light as it fell with its pale and death-like lustre upon the windows.  He stood contemplating it for some time, when, all at once, he perceived, walking about ten yards in advance of him, the shape of a man dressed in black from top to toe.  It was not within the scope of human fortitude to avoid being startled by such a sudden and incomprehensible apparition.  Woodward was startled; but he soon recovered himself, and after the first shock felt rather satisfied that he had some visible object with which he could make the experiment he projected, viz., to ascertain the nature, whether mortal or otherwise, of the being before him.  With this purpose in view, he walked very quickly after him, and as the other did not seem to quicken his pace into a corresponding speed, he took it for granted that he would soon overtake him.  In this, however, he was, much to his astonishment, mistaken.  His own walk was quick and rapid, whilst that of this incomprehensible figure was slow and solemn, and yet he could not lessen the distance between them a single inch.

“Stop, sir,” said Woodward, “whoever or whatever you are—­stop, I wish to speak with you; be you mortal or spiritual, I fear you not—­only stop.”

The being before him, however, walked on at the same slow and solemn pace, but still persisted in maintaining his distance.  Woodward was resolute, fearless—­a sceptic, an infidel, a materialist—­but here was a walking proposition in his presence which he could not solve, and which, up to that point, at least, had set all his theories at defiance.  His blood rose—­he became annoyed at the strange silence of the being before him, but more still at the mysterious and tardy pace with which it seemed to precede and escape him.