When he awoke, the moon had already declined towards the horizon, which discovery surprised him greatly, as he thought he had slept but a few moments.He rose and shook his limbs, stiff from the dampness.Fortunately, he was the only one at Geierfels who had free ingress and egress; the turret which he inhabited communicated with the terrace by a private staircase, to the entrance of which he had the key.Fortunately, too, the bulldogs had learned to know him, and never dreamed of disturbing his movements.He gained the little door without any difficulty, opened it, and having lit a candle which he drew from his pocket, commenced cautiously to ascend the winding staircase, the steps of which were broken in many places.He had just reached the first landing where terminated the spacious corridor, which extended along the principal facade parallel with the terrace, and was preparing to cross it, when he heard a long and painful groan, which seemed to come from the other end of the gallery.Starting, he remained motionless some moments, with neck extended and ears alert, peering into the obscurity from whence he expected to see some melancholy phantom emerge; but almost immediately a gust of wind driving through the broken square of a dormer window made it grind upon its hinges and give out a plaintive sound, which reverberated through the corridor.Gilbert then fancied that what he had taken for a sigh was only the moaning of the wind, counterfeiting in its melancholy gambols the voice of human grief.Resuming his ascent, he had already mounted some steps, when a second groan, still more dismal than the first, reached his ears, and froze the blood in his veins.He was sure he could not be deceived now; the wind had no such accents--it was a wail, sharp, harsh, and heartrending, which seemed as though it might come from the bosom of a specter.
A thousand sinister suppositions assailed Gilbert's mind, but he gave himself no time to reflect.Agitated, panting, his head on fire, he sprang with one bound down the staircase, and reaching the entrance of the gallery, cried out in a trembling voice, and scarcely knowing what he said:
"Who's there? Who wants assistance? I, Gilbert, am ready to come to his aid--"His voice was swallowed up and lost in the somber arches of the corridor.No answer; the darkness remained dumb.In the rapidity of his movement, Gilbert had extinguished his candle; he prepared to relight it, when a hat flew by and struck his forehead with his wings.The start which this unforeseen attack gave him made him drop the candle; he stooped to pick it up, but could not find it.
In spite of this accident, he walked on.A feeble ray of moonlight, which came in by the dormer window and shed through the entrance of the corridor a long thread of bluish light, seemed to guide him a few steps.Then he groped his way with arms extended and touching the wall.Every few steps he stopped and listened, and repeated in a voice hoarse with excitement:
"Who's there? You who are moaning, can I do anything to help you?"Nothing answered him except the beating of his heart, and the murmur of the wind, which continued to torment the hinges of the dormer window.
The gallery into which Gilbert had entered was divided halfway in its length by two steps, at the bottom of which was a large iron door, always kept open during the day, but closed and double-locked as night set in.Approaching this, Gilbert saw a feeble light glimmering beneath the door.He descended the steps, and looking through the key-hole, from which the key had been withdrawn, saw what changed the frightful anguish he had just been suffering into surprise and terror.
At twenty paces from him he saw the appalling figure of a phantom standing erect; it was enveloped in a large white cloth wound several times round its body, passing under its left arm, and falling over the right shoulder.In one hand it held a torch and a sword, in the other an oval ebony frame of which Gilbert could only see the back, but which seemed to inclose a portrait.The face of this specter was emaciated, drawn, and of unusual length; its skin, withered and dry, seemed to be incrusted upon its bones, its complexion was sallow; a profuse perspiration trickled from its brows and glued the hair to its temples.Nothing could describe the expression of terror in its face.It seemed to Gilbert that its two burning eyeballs penetrated even through the door, though they saw nothing which surrounded them; their vision seemed turned within, and the invisible object which fastened their gaze, a heart haunted by specters.
Suddenly the lips of this nocturnal wanderer opened, and another groan more fearful than the first issued from them.It seemed as if his burdened breast wished to shake off by a violent effort a mountain of weariness, the weight of which was crushing it, or rather as though the soul sought to expel itself in this despairing cry.Gilbert was seized with inexpressible agitation, his hair stood on end.He started to fly; but a curiosity stronger than his terror prevented him from leaving the spot and kept him riveted to the door.By the eyebrows and cheekbones, in spite of the distortion of the face, he had recognized Count Kostia.
At length this sinister somnambulist stirred from his motionless position and advanced at a slow pace; he walked like an automaton.
After taking a dozen steps he stopped, looked around him, and slightly bent forward.His strained features resumed their natural proportions, life re-animated his brow, the deathlike inertia of his face gave place to an expression of sadness and prostration.
For a few seconds his lips moved, without saying a word, as if to become flexible, and fashioned anew to the use of speech:--then, in a soft voice which Gilbert did not recognize, and with the plaintive accents of a suffering child, he murmured:
