aside the curtain—­flung open the shutters; my first thought was—­LIGHT.  And when I saw the moon high, clear, and calm, I felt a joy that almost compensated for the previous terror.  There was the moon, there was also the light from the gas-lamps in the deserted slumberous street.  I turned to look back into the room; the moon penetrated its shadow very palely and partially—­but still there was light.  The dark Thing, whatever it might be, was gone—­except that I could yet see a dim shadow which seemed the shadow of that shade, against the opposite wall.

My eye now rested on the table, and from under the table (which was without cloth or cover—­an old mahogany round table) there rose a hand, visible as far as the wrist.  It was a hand, seemingly, as much of flesh and blood as my own, but the hand of an aged person—­lean, wrinkled, small too—­a woman’s hand.

That hand very softly closed on the two letters that lay on the table:  hand and letters both vanished.  There then came the same three loud measured knocks I had heard at the bed-head before this extraordinary drama had commenced.

As those sounds slowly ceased, I felt the whole room vibrate sensibly; and at the far end there rose, as from the floor, sparks or globules like bubbles of light, many-coloured—­green, yellow, fire-red, azure.  Up and down, to and fro, hither, thither, as tiny will-o’-the-wisps, the sparks moved, slow or swift, each at its own caprice.  A chair (as in the drawing-room below) was now advanced from the wall without apparent agency, and placed at the opposite side of the table.  Suddenly, as forth from the chair, there grew a shape—­a woman’s shape.  It was distinct as a shape of life—­ghastly as a shape of death.  The face was that of youth, with a strange mournful beauty; the throat and shoulders were bare, the rest of the form in a loose robe of cloudy white.  It began sleeking its long yellow hair, which fell over its shoulders; its eyes were not turned towards me, but to the door; it seemed listening, watching, waiting.  The shadow of the shade in the background grew darker; and again I thought I beheld the eyes gleaming out from the summit of the shadow—­eyes fixed upon that shape.

As if from the door, though it did not open, there grew out another shape equally distinct, equally ghastly—­a man’s shape—­a young man’s.  It was in the dress of the last century, or rather in a likeness of such dress; for both the male shape and the female, though defined, were evidently unsubstantial, impalpable—­simulacra—­phantasms; and there was something incongruous, grotesque, yet fearful, in the contrast between the elaborate finery, the courtly precision of that old-fashioned garb, with its ruffles and lace and buckles, and the corpse-like aspect and ghost-like stillness of the flitting wearer.  Just as the male shape approached the female, the dark Shadow started from the wall, all three for a moment wrapped in darkness.  When the pale light