last saw him—the colours of life gone from his cheek, and the red tide welling slowly from his forehead—rose upon the gloom. She put her hand before her eyes, but in vain—the faces wore but stronger semblance to humanity. Her imagination only repeated the phantom shapes, and more awful likeness. At last she reached the door, unlocked it, and sprang into the open garden.
Terror dwells amid the works of man, not amid the works of nature. We tremble beside the tomb—we shrink from the icy vapour of the charnel-house—the foot walks unsteadily over the stones placed above the dead; but the green grass and dewy flowers create no fear. Francesca felt mournful, not timid, as she watched the uncertain moonlight break from the huge black clouds which sailed across the heavens. With slow and reluctant step she forced herself to return into the chapel; for in her hurry she had brought her lamp with her, whose assistance she no longer needed. She entered, and with a tremulous hand placed it behind one of the monuments, so that its light would not be visible from the windows, while it would be in readiness for her when she came back. There was a skull carved on the stone, and on that the flame glared as the
