and drew
himself together; but, instantly summoning up his wonted resolution, he
exclaimed, "Who is there?--what art thou, that darest to echo my words
in a tone like that of the night-raven?--Come before my couch that I may
see thee."

"I am thine evil angel, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," replied the voice.

"Let me behold thee then in thy bodily shape, if thou be'st indeed a
fiend," replied the dying knight; "think not that I will blench from
thee.--By the eternal dungeon, could I but grapple with these horrors
that hover round me, as I have done with mortal dangers, heaven or hell
should never say that I shrunk from the conflict!"

"Think on thy sins, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," said the almost unearthly
voice, "on rebellion, on rapine, on murder!--Who stirred up the
licentious John to war against his grey-headed father--against his
generous brother?"

"Be thou fiend, priest, or devil," replied Front-de-Boeuf, "thou liest
in thy throat!--Not I stirred John to rebellion--not I alone--there were
fifty knights and barons, the flower of the midland counties--better
men never laid lance in rest--And must I answer for the fault done
by fifty?--False fiend, I defy thee! Depart, and haunt my couch no
more--let me die in peace if thou be mortal--if thou be a demon, thy
time is not yet come."

"In peace thou shalt NOT die," repeated the voice; "even in death
shalt thou think on thy murders--on the groans which this castle has
echoed--on the blood that is engrained in its floors!"

"Thou canst not shake me by thy petty malice," answered Front-de-Boeuf,
with a ghastly and constrained laugh. "The infidel Jew--it was merit
with heaven to deal with him as I did, else wherefore are men canonized
who dip their hands in the blood of Saracens?--The Saxon porkers, whom I
have slain, they were the foes of my country, and of my lineage, and
of my liege lord.--Ho! ho! thou seest there is no crevice in my coat of
plate--Art thou fled?--art thou silenced?"

"No, foul parricide!" replied the voice; "think of thy father!--think
of his death!--think of his banquet-room flooded with his gore, and that
poured forth by the hand of a son!"

"Ha!" answered the Baron, after a long pause, "an thou knowest that,
thou art indeed the author of evil, and as omniscient as the monks call
thee!--That secret I deemed locked in my own breast, and in that of one
besides--the temptress, the partaker of my guilt.--Go, leave me, fiend!
and seek the Saxon witc