Then a large elbow-chair covered with dirty-white dimity, with my cravat and shirt collar thrown over the back.  Then a chest of drawers with two of the brass handles off, and a tawdry, broken china inkstand placed on it by way of ornament for the top.  Then the dressing-table, adorned by a very small looking-glass, and a very large pincushion.  Then the window—­an unusually large window.  Then a dark old picture, which the feeble candle dimly showed me.  It was a picture of a fellow in a high Spanish hat, crowned with a plume of towering feathers.  A swarthy, sinister ruffian, looking upward, shading his eyes with his hand, and looking intently upward—­it might be at some tall gallows at which he was going to be hanged.  At any rate, he had the appearance of thoroughly deserving it.

This picture put a kind of constraint upon me to look upward too—­at the top of the bed.  It was a gloomy and not an interesting object, and I looked back at the picture.  I counted the feathers in the man’s hat—­they stood out in relief—­three white, two green.  I observed the crown of his hat, which was of conical shape, according to the fashion supposed to have been favoured by Guido Fawkes.  I wondered what he was looking up at.  It couldn’t be at the stars; such a desperado was neither astrologer nor astronomer.  It must be at the high gallows, and he was going to be hanged presently.  Would the executioner come into possession of his conical crowned hat and plume of feathers?  I counted the feathers again—­three white, two green.

While I still lingered over this very improving and intellectual employment, my thoughts insensibly began to wander.  The moonlight shining into the room reminded me of a certain moonlight night in England—­the night after a picnic party in a Welsh valley.  Every incident of the drive homeward, through lovely scenery, which the moonlight made lovelier than ever, came back to my remembrance, though I had never given the picnic a thought for years; though, if I had tried to recollect it, I could certainly have recalled little or nothing of that scene long past.  Of all the wonderful faculties that help to tell us we are immortal, which speaks the sublime truth more eloquently than memory?  Here was I, in a strange house of the most suspicious character, in a situation of uncertainty, and even of peril, which might seem to make the cool exercise of my recollection almost out of the question; nevertheless, remembering, quite involuntarily, places, people, conversations, minute circumstances of every kind, which I had thought forgotten for ever; which I could not possibly have recalled at will, even under the most favourable auspices.  And what cause had produced in a moment the whole of this strange, complicated, mysterious effect?  Nothing but some rays of moonlight shining in at my bedroom window.

I was still thinking of the picnic—­of our merriment on the drive home—­of the sentimental young lady who would quote “Childe Harold” because it was moonlight.  I was absorbed by these past scenes and past amusements, when, in an instant, the thread on which my memories hung snapped asunder; my attention immediately came back to present things more vividly than ever, and I found myself, I neither knew why nor wherefore, looking hard at the picture again.