I may say for myself that I am a temperate man.  My supper simply consisted of some rashers of bacon, a slice of home-made bread, and a pint of ale.  I did not go to bed immediately after this moderate meal, but sat up with the landlord, talking about my bad prospects and my long run of ill-luck, and diverging from these topics to the subjects of horse-flesh and racing.  Nothing was said, either by myself, my host, or the few laborers who strayed into the tap-room, which could, in the slightest degree, excite my mind, or set my fancy—­which is only a small fancy at the best of times—­playing tricks with my common sense.

At a little after eleven the house was closed.  I went round with the landlord, and held the candle while the doors and lower windows were being secured.  I noticed with surprise the strength of the bolts, bars, and iron-sheathed shutters.

“You see, we are rather lonely here,” said the landlord.  “We never have had any attempts to break in yet, but it’s always as well to be on the safe side.  When nobody is sleeping here, I am the only man in the house.  My wife and daughter are timid, and the servant girl takes after her missuses.  Another glass of ale, before you turn in?—­No!—­Well, how such a sober man as you comes to be out of a place is more than I can understand for one.—­Here’s where you’re to sleep.  You’re the only lodger to-night, and I think you’ll say my missus has done her best to make you comfortable.  You’re quite sure you won’t have another glass of ale?—­Very well.  Good night.”

It was half-past eleven by the clock in the passage as we went upstairs to the bedroom.  The window looked out on the wood at the back of the house.

I locked my door, set my candle on the chest of drawers, and wearily got me ready for bed.  The bleak wind was still blowing, and the solemn, surging moan of it in the wood was very dreary to hear through the night silence.  Feeling strangely wakeful, I resolved to keep the candle alight until I began to grow sleepy.  The truth is, I was not quite myself.  I was depressed in mind by my disappointment of the morning; and I was worn out in body by my long walk.  Between the two, I own I couldn’t face the prospect of lying awake in the darkness, listening to the dismal moan of the wind in the wood.

Sleep stole on me before I was aware of it; my eyes closed, and I fell off to rest, without having so much as thought of extinguishing the candle.

The next thing that I remember was a faint shivering that ran through me from head to foot, and a dreadful sinking pain at my heart, such as I had never felt before.  The shivering only disturbed my slumbers—­the pain woke me instantly.  In one moment I passed from a state of sleep to a state of wakefulness—­my eyes wide open—­my mind clear on a sudden as if by a miracle.  The candle had burned down nearly to the last morsel of tallow, but the unsnuffed wick had just fallen off, and the light was, for the moment, fair and full.