shed in 1891. It is called "A Weird Story from the Indian Hills,"
and Mr. Stead preludes it thus: The "tale is told by General Barter,
C.B., of Careystown, Whitegate, Co. Cork. At the time he witnessed the
spectral cavalcade he was living on the hills in India, and when one
evening he was returning home he caught sight of a rider and attendants
coming towards him. The rest of the story, given in the General's own
words, is as follows:--

"At this time the two dogs came, and, crouching at my side, gave low,
frightened whimpers. The moon was at the full--a tropical moon--so
bright that you could see to read a newspaper by its light, and--I saw
the party before me advance as plainly as it were noon day. They were
above me some eight or ten feet on the bridle-road, the earth thrown
down from which sloped to within a pace or two of my feet. On the party
came, until almost in front of me, and now I had better describe them.
The rider was in full dinner dress, with white waistcoat, and wearing a
tall chimney-pot hat, and he sat a powerful hill pony (dark brown, with
mane and tail) in a listless sort of way, the reins hanging loosely from
both hands. A Syce led the pony on each side, but their faces I could
not see, the one next to me having his back to me and the one farthest
off being hidden by the pony's head. Each held the bridle close by the
bit, the man next me with his right and the other with his left hand,
and the hands were on the thighs of the rider, as if to steady him in
his seat. As they approached, I knowing they could not get to any place
other than my own, called out in Hindustani, 'Quon hai?' (Who is it?).
There was no answer, and on they came until right in front of me, when I
said, in English, 'Hullo, what the d----l do you want here?' Instantly
the group came to a halt, the rider gathering the bridle reins up in
both hands, turned his face, which had hitherto been looking away from
me, towards me, and looked down upon me. The group was still as in a
tableau, with the bright moon shining upon it, and I at once recognized
the rider as Lieutenant B., whom I had formerly known. The face,
however, was different from what it used to be; in the place of being
clean-shaven, as when I used to know it, it was now surrounded by a
fringe (what used to be known as a Newgate fringe), and it was the face
of a dead man, the ghastly waxen pallor of it brought out more
distinctly in the moonlight by the dark fringe of hair by