As I ceased from the effort, again that creep of horror came over me; but this time it was more cold and stubborn.  I felt as if some strange and ghastly exhalation were rising up from the chinks of that rugged floor, and filling the atmosphere with a venomous influence hostile to human life.  The door now very slowly and quietly opened as of its own accord.  We precipitated ourselves into the landing-place.  We both saw a large pale light—­as large as the human figure, but shapeless and unsubstantial—­move before us, and ascend the stairs that led from the landing into the attics.  I followed the light, and my servant followed me.  It entered, to the right of the landing, a small garret, of which the door stood open.  I entered in the same instant.  The light then collapsed into a small globule, exceedingly brilliant and vivid; rested a moment on a bed in the corner, quivered, and vanished.  We approached the bed and examined it—­a half-tester, such as is commonly found in attics devoted to servants.  On the drawers that stood near it we perceived an old faded silk kerchief, with the needle still left in a rent half repaired.  The kerchief was covered with dust; probably it had belonged to the old woman who had last died in that house, and this might have been her sleeping-room.

I had sufficient curiosity to open the drawers; there were a few odds and ends of female dress, and two letters tied round with a narrow ribbon of faded yellow.  I took the liberty to possess myself of the letters.  We found nothing else in the room worth noticing—­nor did the light reappear; but we distinctly heard, as we turned to go, a pattering footfall on the floor—­just before us.  We went through the other attics (in all, four), the footfall still preceding us.  Nothing to be seen—­nothing but the footfall heard.  I had the letters in my hand; just as I was descending the stairs I distinctly felt my wrist seized, and a faint, soft effort made to draw the letters from my clasp.  I only held them the more tightly, and the effort ceased.

We regained the bedchamber appropriated to myself, and I then remarked that my dog had not followed us when we had left it.  He was thrusting himself close to the fire, and trembling.  I was impatient to examine the letters; and while I read them, my servant opened a little box in which he had deposited the weapons I had ordered him to bring, took them out, placed them on a table close at my bed-head, and then occupied himself in soothing the dog, who, however, seemed to heed him very little.

The letters were short—­they were dated; the dates exactly thirty-five years ago.  They were evidently from a lover to his mistress, or a husband to some young wife.  Not only the terms of expression, but a distinct reference to a former voyage indicated the writer to have been a seafarer.  The spelling and handwriting were those of a man imperfectly educated, but still the language itself was forcible.  In the expressions of endearment there was a kind