his time day had broken, and
the east was streaked with angry flushes of crimson. The wind swept
through my dripping clothes and froze my aching limbs to the marrow.
Up the river came floating a heavy pall of fog, out of which the
masts showed like grisly skeletons. The snow-storm had not quite
ceased, and a stray flake or two came brushing across my face.
So dawned my Christmas Eve!

As I gained the top, I turned to look down. She was still standing
there, watching me. Seeing me look, she waved her arms, and I heard
her hoarse whisper, "Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"

I left her standing so, and turned away; but in the many ghosts that
haunt my solitary days, not the least vivid is the phantom of this
white-haired woman on the black and silent river, eternally
beckoning, "Kill him!"

I found myself in a yard strewn with timber, spars and refuse, half
hidden beneath the snow. From it a flight of rickety stone steps led
to a rotting door, and thence into the street. Here I stood for a
moment, pondering on my next step. Not a soul was abroad so early;
but I must quickly get a change of clothes somewhere; at present I
stood in my torn dress trousers and soaked shirt. I passed up the
street, my shoeless feet making the first prints in the newly-fallen
snow. The first? No; for when I looked more closely I saw other
footprints, already half obliterated, leading up the street.
These must be Simon Colliver's. I followed them for about a hundred
yards past the shuttered windows.

Suddenly they turned into a shop door, and then seemed to leave it
again. The shop was closed, and above it hung three brass balls,
each covered now with a snowy cap. Above, the blinds were drawn
down, but on looking again, I saw a chink of light between the
shutters. I knocked.

After a short pause, the door was opened. A red-eyed, villainous
face peered out, and seeing me, grew blank with wonder.

"What do you want?" inquired at length the voice belonging to it.

"To buy a fresh suit of clothes. See, I have fallen into the river."

Muttering something beneath his breath, the pawnbroker opened his
door, and let me into the shop.

It was a dingy nest, fitted up with the usual furniture of such a
place. The one dim candle threw a ghostly light on chairs, clocks,
compasses, trinkets, saucepans, watches, piles of china, and suits of
left-off clothes arrayed like rows of suicides along the wall.
A general air of decay hung ove