But
the incident is one of a class which has been made common property
by writers of fiction in all generations; it occurs at least thrice
in the Ingoldsby Legends; Sir Walter Scott gives a terrible
instance in his story of the Scotch judge haunted by the spectre of
the bandit he had sentenced to death {2}, which appears to be
founded on fact; and indeed the present narrative was suggested by
one of Washington Irving's short stories, read by the writer when a
boy at school.

Whether such appearances, of which there are so many authentic
instances, be objective or subjective--the creation of the
sufferer's remorse--they are equally real to the victim.

But the author will no longer detain the reader from the story
itself, only dedicating it to the kind friends he met at Waldron
during his summer holiday in eighteen hundred and eighty-three.

Prologue.

It was an ancient castle, all of the olden time; down in a deep
dell, sheltered by uplands north, east, and west; looking south
down the valley to the Sussex downs, which were seen in the hazy
distance uplifting their graceful outlines to the blue sky, across
a vast canopy of treetops; beneath whose shade the wolf and the
wildcat, the badger and the fox, yet roamed at large, and preyed
upon the wild deer and the lesser game. It bore the name of
Walderne, which signifies a sylvan spot frequented by the wild
beasts; the castle lay beneath; the parish church rose on the
summit of the ridge above--a simple Norman structure, imposing in
its very simplicity.

Behind, the ground rose gradually to the summit of the ridge--which
formed a sort of backbone to the Andredsweald. The ridge was then,
as now, surmounted by a windmill, belonging then to the lords of
the castle, where all his tenants and retainers were compelled to
grind their corn. It commanded a beautiful view of sea and land; a
hostelry stood near the summit, it was called the Cross in Hand,
for it was once the rendezvous of the would-be crusaders, who, from
various parts of the Weald, took the sacred badge, and started for
the distant East via Winchelsea or Pevensey.

In the deep dark wood were many settlements and clearings; Walderne
was perhaps the wildest, as its name implies; around lay
Chiddinglye, once the abode of the Saxon offspring of Chad or Chid;
Hellinglye (Ella-inga-leah), the home of the sons of Ella, of whom
we have written before; Heathfield and Framfield on opposite sides,
open heaths i