fore the house. Lufflin and George Cathcart came by,
presently, carrying lanterns and ropes, their faces looking ghastly in
the greenish light; their voices, too, were thin and far off as in a
dream, though the Captain tried to be hearty and gruff as usual.

"Best within, Mounchere Jacobus; it's an uncertain night; best within."

"You apprehend the rain?"

"No; it's a dry storm; unpleasant on this coast. Go in; there's no
telling what frenzy may seize the wind, and Charlotte is alone."

But M. Jacobus did not go in. He had observed a curious motion on the
part of both men, as they talked: bending their ears at intervals to
listen intently, and keeping a keen scrutiny fixed on the small patch of
ground at their feet, made visible by their lanterns. He saw, too, that
Cathcart stooped, as he turned from them, and, picking up a crisp,
yellow flake, showed it to his companion; and he fancied, too, that the
grim face of the old Captain lost its color when he saw it. He would not
go in: he had a right to see what danger threatened her,--to watch for
it,--to know what were these messengers of coming death sent in from the
silence yonder. And at that fancy, the old wonder and dread of the far
darkness seized him, and he went slowly on through the mist, forgetting
alike danger and warning.

With a mocking smile on his face, as he pursued his fantastic theory.
What if the dead were not dead? What if, unforgetting and cruel, they
could stretch out shadowy hands from that mysterious distance which they
peopled, and summon the living to join them? What if Death itself served
them to-night, and crept upon Charlotte and him unawares in some horror
of this coming storm? Jacobus, like all skeptics, was superstitious; but
he had courage and zest enough to fight down the terror that seized him,
to pamper and play with it. He threw his lank length upon the wet beach,
and clasped his hands under his head; where he disturbed the sand,
gleamed sudden flashes of phosphoric light; he brought them out of the
darkness with his finger: "Fit writing for the dead gone over to leave
upon the shore for those who should follow!" he thought.

Lying on his back, and staring straight up into the fog-covered sky, the
thunder of the sea, that before had filled the whole night, seemed to
his startled senses to drive its direct tide beneath him,--to
articulate, at last, with a new and unexpected meaning. He shut his
eyes; the terror had taken shape; he la