fancied
as he did so that he heard the respiration near him, and passed close to
some one in the dark.

With an unpleasant expectation he threw back the shutters, and
unquestionably he did see, very unmistakably, a dark figure in a chair;
so dark, indeed, that he could not discern more of it than the rude but
undoubted outline of a human shape; and he stood for some seconds,
holding the open shutter in his hand, and looking at it with more of the
reality of fear than he had, perhaps, ever experienced before. Pale
Hecate now, in the conspiracy, as it seemed, withdrew on a sudden the
pall from before her face, and threw her beams full upon the figure. A
slim, tall shape, in dark clothing, and, as it seemed, a countenance he
had never beheld before--black hair, pale features, with a
sinister-smiling character, and a very blue chin, and closed eyes.

Fixed with a strange horror, and almost expecting to see it undergo some
frightful metamorphosis, Mervyn stood gazing on the cadaverous intruder.

'Hollo! who's that?' cried Mervyn sternly.

The figure opened his eyes, with a wild stare, as if he had not opened
them for a hundred years before, and rose up with an uncertain motion,
returning Mervyn's gaze, as if he did not know where he was.

'Who are you?' repeated Mervyn.

The phantom seemed to recover himself slowly, and only said: 'Mr.
Mervyn?'

'Who are you, Sir?' cried Mervyn, again.

'Zekiel Irons,' he answered.

'Irons? what _are_ you, and what business have you here, Sir?' demanded
Mervyn.

'The Clerk of Chapelizod,' he continued, quietly and remarkably sternly,
but a little thickly, like a man who had been drinking.

Mervyn now grew angry.

'The Clerk of Chapelizod--here--sleeping in my parlour! What the devil,
Sir, do you mean?'

'Sleep--Sir--sleep! There's them that sleeps with their eyes open.
Sir--you know who they may be; there's some sleeps sound enough, like me
and you; and some that's sleep-walkers,' answered Irons; and his
enigmatical talk somehow subdued Mervyn, for he said more quietly--

'Well, what of all this, Sirrah?'

'A message,' answered Irons. The man's manner, though quiet, was dogged,
and somewhat savage.

'Give it me, then,' said Mervyn, expecting a note, and extending his
hand.

'I've nothing for your hand, Sir, 'tis for your ear,' said he.

'From whom, then, and what?' said Mervyn, growing impatient again.

'I ask your pardon, Mr. Mervyn; I have a good deal to do, back a