ich stood ajar, and like
a true French door would stand ajar, in spite of every reason and
effort to the contrary, opened upon a long, dark corridor, that led the
Lord knows whither, and seemed just made for ghosts to air themselves
in, when they turned out of their graves at midnight. The wind would
spring up into a hoarse murmur through this passage, and creak the door
to and fro, as if some dubious ghost were balancing in its mind whether
to come in or not. In a word, it was precisely the kind of comfortless
apartment that a ghost, if ghost there were in the chateau, would
single out for its favourite lounge.

My uncle, however, though a man accustomed to meet with strange
adventures, apprehended none at the time. He made several attempts to
shut the door, but in vain. Not that he apprehended any thing, for he
was too old a traveller to be daunted by a wild-looking apartment; but
the night, as I have said, was cold and gusty, something like the
present, and the wind howled about the old turret, pretty much as it
does round this old mansion at this moment; and the breeze from the
long dark corridor came in as damp and chilly as if from a dungeon. My
uncle, therefore, since he could not close the door, threw a quantity
of wood on the fire, which soon sent up a flame in the great
wide-mouthed chimney that illumined the whole chamber, and made the
shadow of the tongs on the opposite wall, look like a long-legged
giant. My uncle now clambered on top of the half score of mattresses
which form a French bed, and which stood in a deep recess; then tucking
himself snugly in, and burying himself up to the chin in the
bed-clothes, he lay looking at the fire, and listening to the wind, and
chuckling to think how knowingly he had come over his friend the
Marquis for a night's lodgings: and so he fell asleep.

He had not taken above half of his first nap, when he was awakened by
the clock of the chateau, in the turret over his chamber, which struck
midnight. It was just such an old clock as ghosts are fond of. It had a
deep, dismal tone, and struck so slowly and tediously that my uncle
thought it would never have done. He counted and counted till he was
confident he counted thirteen, and then it stopped.

The fire had burnt low, and the blaze of the last faggot was almost
expiring, burning in small blue flames, which now and then lengthened
up into little white gleams. My uncle lay with his eyes half closed,
and his nightcap dra