ther was he a coward; yet a hero of romance might have been juſtified in a caſe like this, ſhould he have betrayed fear. Henry’s heart ſunk within him; his knees ſmote together, and, upon the chamber door being opened, and his name uttered in a hollow voice, he dropped the portrait to the floor; and ſat, as if riveted to the chair, without daring to lift up his eyes. At length, however, as ſilence again prevailed, he ventured, for a moment, to raiſe his eyes, when–my blood freezes as I relate it–before him ſtood the figure of Mary in a ſhroud; her beamleſs eye fixed upon him with a vacant ſtare; and her bared boſom expoſing a moſt deadly gaſh. “Henry! Henry! Henry!” ſhe repeated in a hollow tone–“Henry! I am come for thee! thou haſt often ſaid that death with me was preferable to life without me; come, then, and enjoy all the ecſtaſies of love theſe ghaſtly features, added to the contemplation of a charnel-houſe, can inſpire;” then, gaſping his hand with her icy fingers, he ſwooned; and inſtantly found himſelf ſtretched on the hearth of his maſter’s kitchen; a romance in his hand, and the houſe-dog by his ſide, whoſe cold noſe touching his hand, had awakened him.
