is master turned his head away and was silent.

Mr. Soutar came.

"Fetch Morrison," said the marquis, "and go to bed."

The wind howled terribly as Malcolm ascended the stairs and half felt
his way, for he had no candle, through the long passages leading to
his room. As he entered the last a huge vague form came down upon
him like a deeper darkness through the dark. Instinctively he stepped
aside. It passed noiselessly, with a long stride, and not even a
rustle of its garments--at least Malcolm heard nothing but the roar
of the wind. He turned and followed it. On and on it went, down the
stair, through a corridor, down the great stone turnpike stair, and
through passage after passage. When it came into the more frequented
and half-lighted thoroughfares of the house it showed as a large
figure in a long cloak, indistinct in outline.

It turned a corner close by the marquis's room. But when Malcolm,
close at its heels, turned also, he saw nothing but a vacant lobby,
the doors around which were all shut. One after another he quickly
opened them, all except the marquis's, but nothing was to be seen.
The conclusion was that it had entered the marquis's room. He must
not disturb the conclave in the sick chamber with what might be but "a
false creation proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain," and turned
back to his own room, where he threw himself on his bed and fell
asleep.

About twelve Mrs. Courthope called him: his master was worse, and
wanted to see him.

The midnight was dark and still, for the wind had ceased. But a hush
and a cloud seemed gathering in the stillness and darkness, and with
them came the sense of a solemn celebration, as if the gloom were
canopy as well as pall--black, but bordered and hearted with purple
and gold; and the terrible stillness seemed to tremble as with the
inaudible tones of a great organ at the close or commencement of some
mighty symphony.

With beating heart he walked softly toward the room where, as on an
altar, lay the vanishing form of his master, like the fuel in whose
dying flame was offered the late and ill-nurtured sacrifice of his
spirit.

As he went through the last corridor leading thither, Mrs. Catanach,
type and embodiment of the horrors that haunt the dignity of death,
came walking toward him like one at home, her great round body lighty
upborne on her soft foot. It was no time to challenge her presence,
and yielding her the half of the narrow way he passed with