ave-clothes. He was terribly nervous, and shook, so he feared to fire
the pistol; but at length he did, and the report was followed by a fall
and a loud groan.

This was very dreadful--very dreadful; but all was quiet, and he lit the
candle again, and approached the body to examine it, and ascertain if he
knew who it was. A groan came from it. The bureau was open, and the
figure clutched firmly a will in his hand.

The figure was dressed in grave-clothes, and he started up when he saw
the form and features of his own uncle, the man who was dead, who
somehow or other had escaped his confinement, and found his way up,
here. He held his will firmly; and the nephew was so horrified and
stunned, that he threw down the light, and rushed out of the room with a
shout of terror, and never returned again.

* * * * *

The narrator concluded, and one of the guests said,--

"And do you really believe it?"--"No, no--to be sure not."

"You don't?"--"Why should I? My friend was, out of all hand, one of the
greatest liars I ever came near; and why, therefore, should I believe
him? I don't, on my conscience, believe one word of it."

It was now half-past twelve, and, as Tom Eccles came not back, and the
landlord did not feel disposed to draw any more liquor, they left the
inn, and retired to their separate houses in a great state of anxiety to
know the fate of their respective wagers.

CHAPTER LXIV.

THE VAMPIRE IN THE MOONLIGHT.--THE FALSE FRIEND.

[Illustration]

Part of the distance being accomplished towards the old ruins, Tom
Eccles began to feel that what he had undertaken was not altogether such
child's-play as he had at first imagined it to be. Somehow or another,
with a singular and uncomfortable sort of distinctness, there came
across his mind every story that he had remembered of the wild and the
wonderful. All the long-since forgotten tales of superstition that in
early childhood he had learned, came now back upon him, suggesting to
his mind a thousand uncomfortable fancies of the strangest description.

It was not likely that when once a man, under such circumstances, got
into such a frame of mind, he would readily get out of it again, while
he continued surrounded by such scenes as had first called them into
existence.

No doubt, had he turned about, and faced the inn again instead of the
old ruins he would soon have shaken off these "thick coming fancies;"
but such a r