loud. In the midst of the awful vapour, the
Schoolmaster sees the pale ghosts, and those murderous scenes in which
he had been the actor. In this fantastic mirage he first sees a little
bald-headed old man, clad in a long brown coat, and wearing an eye-shade
of green silk. He is employing himself in a dilapidated chamber in
counting and arranging pieces of gold into piles by the light of a lamp.
Through the window, lighted by the dim moonlight reflected on the tops
of some high trees waving in the wind, the Schoolmaster recognises his
own figure. Pressing his distorted features against the glass, following
every motion of the old man with glaring eyes, then breaking a pane, he
opens the window itself, leaps with a bound upon his victim, and stabs
him between the shoulders with his long and keen knife. The movement is
so rapid, the blow so quick and sure, that the dead body of the old man
remains seated in the chair.

The murderer tries to withdraw his weapon from the dead body,--he
cannot! He redoubles his efforts,--in vain! He then seeks to quit the
deadly steel,--impossible!

The hand of the assassin clings to the handle of the poignard, as the
blade of the poignard clings to the frame of the wounded man. The
murderer then hears the sound of clinking spurs and clashing swords in
the adjoining room. He must escape at all risks, and attempts to carry
with him the body of the feeble old man, from which he cannot withdraw
either his weapon or his hand.

He cannot do even this. The light and feeble carcass weighs him down
like a mass of lead. Despite his herculean shoulders, his desperate
efforts, the Schoolmaster cannot even stir this overwhelming weight.

The sound of echoing steps and jingling sabres comes nearer and nearer.
The key turns in the lock,--the door opens. The vision disappears.

And then the screech-owl flaps her wing, and shrieks out:

"It is the old miser of the Rue de la Roule. Your maiden murder! murder!
murder!"

A moment's darkness,--then the miasma which covers the lake of blood
resumes its transparency, and another spectre is revealed.

The day begins to dawn,--the fog is thick and heavy. A man, clothed like
a cattle-dealer, lies stretched, dead on the bank of the highroad. The
trampled earth, the torn turf, proved that the victim had made a
desperate resistance. The man has five bleeding wounds in his breast. He
is lifeless; yet still he seems to whistle on his dogs, calling to them,
"Help