y the wailing spirit of
a woman in a gray robe, who had been poisoned by a jealous lover. La
Corriveau gave him sweatmeats of the manna of St. Nicholas, which
the woman ate from his hand, and fell dead at his feet in this
trysting-place, where they met for the last time. The man fled to the
forest, haunted by a remorseful conscience, and died a retributive
death: he fell sick, and was devoured by wolves. La Corriveau alone of
mortals held the terrible secret.

La Corriveau gave a low laugh as she saw the pale outline of the woman
resolve itself into the gray stone. "The dead come not again!" muttered
she, "and if they do she will soon have a companion to share her
midnight walks round the Chateau!" La Corriveau had no conscience; she
knew not remorse, and would probably have felt no great fear had that
pale spirit really appeared at that moment, to tax her with wicked
complicity in her murder.

The clock of the Chateau struck twelve. Its reverberations sounded far
into the night as La Corriveau emerged stealthily out of the forest,
crouching on the shady side of the high garden hedges, until she reached
the old watch-tower, which stood like a dead sentinel at his post on the
flank of the Chateau.

There was an open doorway, on each side of which lay a heap of fallen
stones. This was the entrance into a square room, dark and yawning as
a cavern. It was traversed by one streak of moonshine, which struggled
through a grated window set in the thick wall.

La Corriveau stood for a few moments looking intently into the gloomy
ruin; then, casting a sharp glance behind her, she entered. Tired with
her long walk through the forest, she flung herself upon a stone seat
to rest, and to collect her thoughts for the execution of her terrible
mission.

The dogs of the Chateau barked vehemently, as if the very air bore some
ominous taint; but La Corriveau knew she was safe: they were shut up in
the courtyard, and could not trace her to the tower. A harsh voice or
two and the sound of whips presently silenced the barking dogs, and all
was still again.

She had got into the tower unseen and unheard. "They say there is an
eye that sees everything," muttered she, "and an ear that hears our
very thoughts. If God sees and hears, he does nothing to prevent me from
accomplishing my end; and he will not interfere to-night! No, not for
all the prayers she may utter, which will not be many more! God if there
be one--lets La Corriveau live