More than once, in the darkness, the story of the bleeding nun had returned to me. Was I possessed by a demon, even as was Don Alonso? The waiter seemed a terribly long time in coming.
I opened the door. Heaven have mercy on us! there was a light in my bedroom. I rapidly crossed the little sitting-room which came first and a single glance sufficed to show me no one was in my bedroom; but immediately I heard light steps behind me, and the rustle of skirts. I believe my hair stood on end as I turned round suddenly.
A woman, dressed in white, her head covered with a black mantilla, rushed to me with outstretched arms.
"Here you are at last, my beloved!" she cried, as she seized my hands.
Hers were as cold as ice, and her features were as pale as death. I started back against the wall.
"Holy Mother! It is not he! . . . Oh, Monsieur, are you Don Ottavio's friend?"
At that name all was made clear. In spite of her pallor the young lady did not look like a ghost; she lowered her eyes, a thing ghosts never do, and held her hands clasped in a modest attitude before her girdle, which made me think
