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summer. About dawning day, he was awakened by a noise in the room; he drew the curtains, and a figure, like one of the hanged men, in its shroud and dead cap, stood pale and sad at the window. He rubbed his eyes, he strove to waken himself; he turned himself in his bed; he stretched himself forward, and endeavoured to penetrate the gloom; the figure of sleep did not, as he imagined it would, melt into thin air; it moved its eyes even, it opened and shut its mouth, it seemed preparing itself to speak. Nature was now too strong either for reason or philosophy; a cold damp bedewed his forehead, and he lay speechless and almost senseless. The phantom approached the bed, and fell on its knees before him.—"Master," said it, remember I have "saved your life, now save mine."
It was Dennis, the poor hanged Dennis; his fears had saved him. He had to be supported on the car as it was drawn slowly away, and he swung gently off: his fellow-sufferer threw himself with violence, and was almost instantly dead. Dennis was likewise
