cted to see some Spanish Don, with his throat cut from ear
to ear, rising slowly out of the ground, and shaking the ghost of a
money-bag.

Their way back lay through the desolate garden, and Wolfert's nerves
had arrived at so sensitive a state that the flitting of a bird, the
rustling of a leaf, or the falling of a nut was enough to startle him.
As they entered the confines of the garden, they caught sight of a
figure at a distance advancing slowly up one of the walks and bending
under the weight of a burthen. They paused and regarded him
attentively. He wore what appeared to be a woollen cap, and still more
alarming, of a most sanguinary red. The figure moved slowly on,
ascended the bank, and stopped at the very door of the sepulchral
vault. Just before entering he looked around. What was the horror of
Wolfert when he recognized the grizzly visage of the drowned buccaneer.
He uttered an ejaculation of horror. The figure slowly raised his iron
fist and shook it with a terrible menace. Wolfert did not pause to see
more, but hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him, nor was Sam
slow in following at his heels, having all his ancient terrors revived.
Away, then, did they scramble, through bush and brake, horribly
frightened at every bramble that tagged at their skirts, nor did they
pause to breathe, until they had blundered their way through this
perilous wood and had fairly reached the high-road to the city.

Several days elapsed before Wolfert could summon courage enough to
prosecute the enterprise, so much had he been dismayed by the
apparition, whether living dead, of the grizzly buccaneer. In the
meantime, what a conflict of mind did he suffer! He neglected all his
concerns, was moody and restless all day, lost his appetite; wandered
in his thoughts and words, and committed a thousand blunders. His rest
was broken; and when he fell asleep, the nightmare, in shape of a huge
money-bag, sat squatted upon his breast. He babbled about incalculable
sums; fancied himself engaged in money digging; threw the bed-clothes
right and left, in the idea that he was shovelling among the dirt,
groped under the bed in quest of the treasure, and lugged forth, as he
supposed, an inestimable pot of gold.

Dame Webber and her daughter were in despair at what they conceived a
returning touch of insanity. There are two family oracles, one or other
of which Dutch housewives consult in all cases of great doubt and
perplexity: the domi