Here and there a light shining in a room revealed a large latticed window, running the whole width of the house.  In spite of Andre’s fatigue and burden, we could only stand and gaze.  No human power could mesmerise us, but the window did so.

What could be more startlingly weird and picturesque than the bright reflection of these latticed panes, surrounded by this intense darkness, these mysterious outlines?  Almost we expected to see a ghostly vision advance from the interior, and, opening the lattice with a skeleton hand, ask our pleasure at thus invading their solitude at the witching hour—­for the vibration of the bells tolling midnight was still upon the air, travelling into space, perhaps announcing to other worlds that to us another day was dead, another day was born.

But no ghost appeared.  A very human figure, however, did so.  It looked down upon us for a moment, and mistaking our rapt gaze at the antiquities—­of which it did not form a part—­for mere vulgar curiosity, held up a reproving hand.  Then, catching sight of H.C., it darted forward, looked breathlessly into the night, and seemed also mesmerised as by a revelation.

We quietly went our way, leaving the spell to work itself out.  Our footsteps echoed in the silent night, with the running accompaniment of a double-shuffle from Misery.  No other sound broke the stillness; we were absolutely alone with the ancient houses, the stars and the sky.  It might have been a Mediaeval City of the Dead, unpeopled since the days of its youth.  Our candle burned on in the hand of Andre; our reflections danced and played about us:  one hears of the Dance of Death—­this was the Dance of Ghosts—­a natural sequence; ghostly shadows flitted out of every doorway, down every turning.

At last we emerged on to an open space, partly filled by a modern building with a hideous roof, evidently the market place.  Here we ascended to a higher level.  Ancient outlines still surrounded us, but were interrupted by modern ones also.  Square roofs and straight lines broke the continuity of the picturesque gabled roofs and latticed windows.  Ichabod may be written upon the lintels of all that is ancient and disappearing, all that is modern and hideous.  The spirit and beauty of the past are dead and buried.

“We are almost there,” said Andre, with a sigh that would have been profound if he had had strength to make it so.  “A few more yards and we arrive.”

We too sighed with relief, though the midnight walk amidst these wonders of a bygone age had proved refreshing and awakening.  But we sympathised with our guide, who was only kept up by necessity.

We passed out of the market place again into a narrow street, dark, silent and gloomy.  At the third or fourth house, Andre exclaimed “Nous voila!” and down went the baggage like a dead-weight in front of a closed doorway.

The house was in darkness:  no sight or sound could be seen or heard; everyone seemed wrapped in slumber; a strange condition of things if we were expected.  The man rang the bell:  a loud, long peal.  No response; no light, no movement; profound silence.