“No; be on your guard.”

The dog now roused himself and sat on his haunches, his ears moving quickly backwards and forwards.  He kept his eyes fixed on me with a look so strange that he concentered all my attention on himself.  Slowly he rose up, all his hair bristling, and stood perfectly rigid, and with the same wild stare.  I had no time, however, to examine the dog.  Presently my servant emerged from his room; and if ever I saw horror in the human face, it was then.  I should not have recognized him had we met in the street, so altered was every lineament.  He passed by me quickly, saying in a whisper that seemed scarcely to come from his lips, “Run—­run! it is after me!” He gained the door to the landing, pulled it open, and rushed forth.  I followed him into the landing involuntarily, calling him to stop; but, without heeding me, he bounded down the stairs, clinging to the balusters, and taking several steps at a time.  I heard, where I stood, the street-door open—­heard it again clap to.  I was left alone in the haunted house.

It was but for a moment that I remained undecided whether or not to follow my servant; pride and curiosity alike forbade so dastardly a flight.  I re-entered my room, closing the door after me, and proceeded cautiously into the interior chamber.  I encountered nothing to justify my servant’s terror.  I again carefully examined the walls, to see if there were any concealed door.  I could find no trace of one—­not even a seam in the dull-brown paper with which the room was hung.  How, then, had the THING, whatever it was, which had so scared him, obtained ingress except through my own chamber?

I returned to my room, shut and locked the door that opened upon the interior one, and stood on the hearth, expectant and prepared.  I now perceived that the dog had slunk into an angle of the wall, and was pressing himself close against it, as if literally striving to force his way into it.  I approached the animal and spoke to it; the poor brute was evidently beside itself with terror.  It showed all its teeth, the slaver dropping from its jaws, and would certainly have bitten me if I had touched it.  It did not seem to recognize me.  Whoever has seen at the Zoological Gardens a rabbit fascinated by a serpent, cowering in a corner, may form some idea of the anguish which the dog exhibited.  Finding all efforts to soothe the animal in vain, and fearing that his bite might be as venomous in that state as in the madness of hydrophobia, I left him alone, placed my weapons on the table beside the fire, seated myself, and recommenced my Macaulay.

Perhaps, in order not to appear seeking credit for a courage, or rather a coolness, which the reader may conceive I exaggerate, I may be pardoned if I pause to indulge in one or two egotistical remarks.