he could hardly decline so flattering a proposition, so,
after some hemming and hawing, he said he would take the Quaker at his
word. He played but two or three more tunes that evening, did Peter
Matthews, and played them rather sadly; then, as Quidd had finished his
mulled cider and departed, he took his homeward way in thoughtful mood.
Printz Hall stood in a lonely, weed-grown garden near Chester,
Pennsylvania, and thither repaired Peter, as next day's twilight shut
down, with a mattress, blanket, comestibles, his beloved fiddle, and a
flask of whiskey. Ensconcing himself in the room that was least
depressing in appearance he stuffed rags into the vacant panes, lighted a
candle, started a blaze in the fireplace, and ate his supper.

"Not so bad a place, after all," mumbled Peter, as he warmed himself at
the fire and the flask; then, taking out his violin, he began to play.
The echo of his music emphasized the emptiness of the house, the damp got
into the strings so that they sounded tubby, and there were unintentional
quavers in the melody whenever the trees swung against the windows and
splashed them with rain, or when a distant shutter fell a-creaking.
Finally, he stirred the fire, bolted the door, snuffed his candle, took a
courageous pull at the liquor, flung off his coat and shoes, rolled his
blanket around him, stretched himself on the mattress, and fell asleep.
He was awakened by--well, he could not say what, exactly, only he became
suddenly as wide awake as ever he had been in his life, and listened for
some sound that he knew was going to come out of the roar of the wind and
the slamming, grating, and whistling about the house. Yes, there it was:
a tread and a clank on the stair. The door, so tightly bolted, flew open,
and there entered a dark figure with steeple-crowned hat, cloak,
jack-boots, sword, and corselet. The terrified fiddler wanted to howl,
but his voice was gone. "I am Peter Printz, governor-general of his
Swedish Majesty's American colonies, and builder of this house," said the
figure. "'Tis the night of the autumnal equinox, when my friends meet
here for revel. Take thy fiddle and come. Play, but speak not."

And whether he wished or no, Peter was drawn to follow the figure, which
he could make out by the phosphor gleam of it. Down-stairs they went,
doors swinging open before them, and along corridors that clanged to the
stroke of the spectre's boot heels. Now they came to the ancient
reception