The door
was pushed open, and we peered out. The wind was still high, and the
moon rode among rolling boulders of yellow, fleecy clouds.
"There, there, over yonder, look; Mother of Christ, look at the ghost!"
the old man pointed a shaking hand.
Just then the moonlight was blackened by a big cloud, and we heard the
tinkling music of a harpsichord again, but could see naught. The sounds
were plainer now, and presently resolved into the rhythmic accents of a
gavotte. But it seemed far away and very plaintive!
"Hark," said Michael, in a hoarse voice. "That's the gavotte from
Pagliacci. Listen! Don't you remember it?"
"Pshaw!" I said roughly, for my nerves were all astir. "It's the Alceste
music of Gluck."
"Look, look, gentlemen!" called our host, and as the moon glowed again
in the blue we saw at the edge of the forest a white figure, saw it, I
swear, although it vanished at once and the music ceased. I started to
follow, but Michael and the old man seized my arms, the door was closed
with a crash, and we found ourselves staring blankly into the fire, all
feeling a bit shaken up.
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