I.

I COULD not sleep; vainly I tossed from one side of the bed to the other. — "The devil take all table-turning," thought I; "it upsets one's nerves!"

      I just began to doze when I fancied I heard the string of an instrument sound close to me; it gave a sad and tender note. I raised my head. At this moment the moon had just appeared above the horizon, and its rays fell full on my face. White as chalk was the floor of my room where the moonlight lay. The sound was renewed, and this time more distinctly. I leaned upon my elbow. My heart beat a little — one minute passed, then another. Far away a cock crowed; farther still another cock answered. My head fell back on the pillow. — "I am all right now! I wonder shall my ears sing again?" At last I slept, or thought I slept. I had strange dreams. I was surprised to find myself in my room, lying on my own bed, and unable to close my eyes. Again the same sound! I turned my head. The moonlight on the floor began gently to gather up — to take a form — it lifted itself. Before me stood, transparent as mist, the white figure of a woman.

      "Who is there?" I asked with an effort.

      A delicate voice, like the rustling of leaves, replies:—

      "It is I, I; I come to visit you."

      "To visit me! Who are you?"

      "Come at night down to the edge of the forest, under the old oak: I will be there."

      I try to see the features of this mysterious figure, and I shudder in spite of myself. I feel as if numbed with cold. I am no longer lying down, but sitting up in bed, and where I thought I saw a phantom, there is only a white moon-ray stretched along the floor.

II.

      Now slowly the day passed. I tried to read — to work. . . in vain. At last night came; my pulse beat quickly in expectation of some adventure. I lay down, and turned my face to the wall.

      "Why didst thou not come?" murmured a small voice, low but distinct, quite close to me in my room.

      It is she! The same mysterious phantom with her motionless eyes, motionless features, and looks full of sadness!

      "Come!" she murmured once more.

      "I will go," I replied, not without afright.

      The phantom seemed to make a movement towards my bed. It wavered, its form became confused and vaporous. In an instant there was only the white moon-rays on the polished floor.

III.

      I passed all next day in great agitation. At supper I drank nearly a whole bottle of wine. I went out on the terrace, but returned almost immediately, and threw myself on the bed; my pulse beat quickly. Once more I heard the twang of a cord. I shuddered and dared not look — suddenly — it seemed to me that some one had laid their hands on my shoulders from behind, and whispered in my ear:—

      "Come, come, come!"

      Trembling I answered with a sigh;

      "I come!" and I raised myself in bed. The white lady was there, bending over my bedside, she smiled sweetly and vanished. Yet I had time to glance at her face: it seemed as if I had seen it before; but where, and when? I rose very late, and all that day I spent wandering in the fields. I visited the old oak by the edge of the forest, and examined all the whereabouts. Towards evening I sat by the window of my study; my old housekeeper brought me a cup of tea, but I did not drink it. I could not make up my mind to anything, and asked myself if I was not becoming crazy. At last sunset came; not a cloud in the heavens. Suddenly, the landscape took an almost unnaturally purple hue; burnished with this lakey tint, the leaves and grass no longer waved, but seemed petrified. This brightness, this immobility — the rigidness of the outlines, with the silence of death reigning over all, was something awful and inexplicable. Soundlessly a large brown bird alighted on my window-sill; I gazed at it — it also looked askance at me, with its round cunning eyes.

      Thought I to myself, "You are sent, no doubt, to remind me of my rendezvous." A moment after the bird fluttered his down-lined wings, and flew away as noiselessly as he came. For long after, I sat by my window, but now all irresolution had ceased. I felt imprisoned in a magic ring. In vain I tried to resist, drawn on as I was by a secret force. Thus is the bark hopelessly carried on by the rapids towards the cataract that is to engulf it. At length I roused myself; the purplish colour of the landscape had disappeared, its brilliant tints were toned down, and soon should be extinguished in an obscurity favourable to enchantments. A light breeze sprang up, and the moon mounted brightly in the blue heavens; under its cold rays the leaves trembled, now in shade, now in silver. My housekeeper brought in a lighted lamp, but a blast of wind from the window extinguished it. I rose suddenly, drew my hat over my eyes, and strode on to the corner of the forest where stood the aged oak.

IV.

      Years ago this oak had been struck by lightning; its summit was blasted and dead, but its trunk had life enough in it for centuries to come. As I drew near, a cloudlet passed over the moon, and beneath the thick foliage of the oak the shade was deeply dark. At first I saw nothing remarkable, but on looking to one side — O! how my heart beat quickly! — I descried a white figure standing still near a bush between the oak and the forest. My hair stood on end — I could scarcely breathe, yet I advanced towards the wood.

      It was herself, my nightly visitant. Just as I approached her, the moon issued from the cloud that obscured it. The phantom appeared as if formed of a half-transparent milky fog. Through its face, I could decern a bough shaken by the wind. Only the eyes and hair were of a darker tint. I observed besides, that as she held her hands clasped together, on one of her fingers was a slight gold ring, pale, yet brilliant. I stood a few steps from her, and tried to speak, but my voice clave in my throat, and yet it was not all fear that possessed me. She turned towards me, Her look expressed neither sadness nor joy, simply a mournful attention. I waited for her to speak, but she stood wordless and motionless, transfixing me with her cold glassy eyes.

      "Here I am!" cried I at length with a supreme effort. My voice resounded strange and coarse.

      "I love thee!" her delicate voice replied.

      "Thou lovest me!" cried I, thunder-struck.

      "Give thyself to me!" she said.

      "Give myself to thee! but thou art a phantom. Thou hast no being!" All my mind was upset. "Who art thou? — a vapour, a mist, an airy form? Give myself to thee! First tell me what thou art? Hast thou lived on earth? Whence comest thou?"

      "Give thyself to me. I will do thee no harm. Say only these two words, 'Take me!'"

      I looked at her bewildered. "What does she say? — what did she mean?" I thought to myself, "Shall I risk it?" All at once I cried out with a sudden impulse, as if some one had pushed me from behind, 'Take me!'

      Scarcely had I uttered the words, when this mysterious figure, with an inward smile that for a moment trembled over every feature, advanced, her hands unclasped and stretched out to me. I tried to dart back, but already I was in her power. She held me fast in her arms. In a twinkling my body was raised from the earth, and we flew gently above the tranquil, sleeping fields.

V.

      At first my head whirled; involuntarily I closed my eyes, when I reopened them, a moment after, we were flying still, and the forest was already no longer visible. Beneath us stretched a great speckled plain. I perceived with stupefaction that we were at an enormous height.

      "Am I in the power of a demon?"

      This thought struck me like a thunderbolt. Until that moment the idea of diabolical power — of my possible perdition — never entered my mind. Still we flew, and still it seemed to me that we rose higher and higher.

      "Wither dost thou carry me?" at last I demanded.

      "Whithersoever thou wilt!" answered my companion, clasping me still closer in her arms. Her face touched mine, and yet I scarcely felt the contact.

      "Take me back to earth. I am ill at ease at this great height."

      "Well, then, shut your eyes, and breathe not."

      I obeyed. Instantly I felt as if falling like a stone. The wind whistled through my hair. As soon as I could take breath, I saw that now we were sailing above the earth, almost touching the points of the high grass.

      "Lay me down here," I said. "What a strange idea it was to fly! I am not a bird!"

      "I hoped to give you pleasure. As for us, we do nothing else."

      "You? But who are you?"

      No answer.

      "You fear to tell me?"

      A plaintive sound, like to the melancholy note that awoke me the first night, resounded in my ear, as we flew in a dewy atmosphere close to the ground.

      "Lay me down on the grass," I insisted.

      She bowed her head in token of obedience, and I alighted on my feet. She stood before me, and again her hands were folded as one who waits.

      I felt reassured, and began to study her attentively. At first her expression appeared to be that of sad resignation.

      "Where are we?" I inquired, for I knew not where I stood.

      "Far from thy home; but we can reach it in a moment."

      "How can that be? Shall I again trust myself to thee?"

      "I have done thee no harm, and will do thee none. Together shall we flee until the dawn. Nothing more. Whithersoever wander thy thoughts, there can I take thee, — through all the kingdoms of the universe. Give thyself to me. Say again, 'Take me!'"

      "Well, then, Take me!"

      Once more her arms embraced me; once more my feet left the earth — we flew.

VI.

      "Whither will thou go?"

      "Straight on before us."

      "But there is a forest."

      "Let us pass above it — but not so fast."

      Round and round upwards we flew, as the woodcock to the beech-tree top. Then we struck straight onwards.

      It was no longer ears of corn, it was the summits of high trees that glided beneath us. How strange it was to look down on that forest from on high, with the rugged boughs shimmering in the moonlight! One might fancy it a Leviathan lying asleep, and breathing heavily with sighing, sobbing sounds. At times we pass above a clearing, and I admire the lacey shadows of the trees athwart the herbage.

      Occasionally, the plaintive cry of the hare is heard. Plaintive also is the call of the owl. The air wafts to us odours of fungi and swelling buds and dewy grass. The moon bathes us in waves of her cold light, and the stars shine dazzling above our heads.

      Soon the forest disappears behind us. A plain is there streaked with a long line of greying vapour, that marked the bed of a river. Our course lay along its banks, above the rushes that beat beneath the spray.

      Sometimes the water glistened with a bluish light, sometimes it whirled dark and menacing. In some places a foamy vapour trembled over the current. Here and there I saw water-lilies expand their snowy petals, displaying their treasures of beauty like virgins that believe themselves safe from vulgar gaze. I wished to cull a flower, at once I almost touched the water-mirror; but as I tore away the thick stalk of the lily, a viscid wetness dashed in my face.

      Hither and thither across the river do we fly, like the plover that we startle at every moment.

      More than once we looked down into the pretty wild-ducks' nests that lay in groups amid the rushes. But they did not fly away. One of them popped his head from under his wing, and stared and stared, then slowly dug his beak into the soft down, while his comrade uttered a weak couee, couee!

      We started a heron from an alder­bush; as he jumped up and awkwardly shook his wings, he reminded me of a Prussian recruit. As for the fish, we saw not one. All were asleep at the bottom. I began to grow accustomed to flying, and even liked it. Those who fly in dreams will understand me.

      Completely reassured, I now began to observe closely the strange being to whom I owed the part I was playing in this incredible adventure.

VII.

      She was a young female, whose features betook nothing of the Russian type. Her half-transparent pearl-white form, with shadows scarcely indicated, recalled the carved figures on an alabaster vase, in the interior of which is a lighted lamp.

      "May I speak to thee?" I asked.

      "Speak."

      "I see a ring on thy finger. Hast thou dwelt on earth? Art thou wed?"

      I ceased — she replied not.

      "What is thy name, how art thou called?"

      "Call me Ellice."

      "Ellice? That is an English name. Art thou English? Hast thou known me in former times?"

      "No."

      "Why hast thou appeared to me?"

      "I love thee."

      "Art thou happy?"

      "Yes. Flying, floating with thee in ether!"

      "Ellice," I cried, quickly, "art thou not in trouble? Art thou not a banished soul?"

      "I understand thee not," she murmured, drooping her head.

      "In the name of God, I adjure" —— She interrupted me: "What sayest thou?" as if she could not comprehend. "I know not what you mean."

      I thought I felt the cold hand that sustained me, tremble slightly.

      "Fear not, fear not, my beloved."

      Her face bent over mine. Upon my lips I felt a strange sensation, something like a soft pricking-like the touch of a leach before it bites.

VIII.

      We floated at a considerable height. I looked down. We were passing over a town to me unknown, built on the side of a high hill. Above the dark masses of verdure appeared the church spires; across one of the windings of the river a great bridge stood out blackly. Gilded cupolas and metal crosses shone with a dull glitter. Silent was the white road that like a narrow ribbon traversed the city from end to end, and lost itself in the obscurity of the level plain beyond.

      "What city is that?" I asked of Ellice.

      "The city of N."

      "In the kingdom of * * *?"

      "Yes."

      "How far are we from home?"

      "Distance is nought to us."

      "Really?"

      All at once I felt courageous.

      "Bring me to America."

      "Impossible, for there it is day."

      "True, and we are night birds. Well, then, no matter where, but somewhere far, far away."

      "Close your eyes and mouth," said Ellice.

      We sped like lightning; the air whistled through my ears with a deafening sound. Now that we stopped it did not cease — on the contrary, it redoubled. It was like a terrible hurling, a frightful whirlwind.

      "Now open your eyes," said Ellice.

IX.

      I obey — Just God! where am I?

      Above our heads, clouds low, heavy, thick, press and wrestle each other like a pack of savage, enraged monsters — below us another monster, the sea; the furious, untamed sea. With convulsive throes a white foam rises in boiling mountains; shivered waves beat with brutal force on rocks blacker than pitch. The bellowing of the tempest, the freezing air that issued from the depths of the abyss, the echoing of the waves as they dashed upon the beach, was now like to a great lamentation; now, to a discharge of distant artillery. At one instant I thought I heard the ringing of bells, a moment after it was the grinding of pebbles on the shore. Anon the shrill cry of an invisible gull sounded in my ear. Through a break in the clouds loomed the uncertain outlines of a ship. Everywhere death — death and horror! My head swam. I closed my eyes in terror.

      "What means this? Where are we?"

      "On the coast of the Isle of Wight, where ships are often wrecked," replied Ellice, with what appeared to be a malignant expression of joy.

      "Take me away from this, far away to home."

      I gathered myself up and covered my eyes. I felt that we flew more rapidly than ever. The wind had ceased, and yet I felt it rushing through my clothes and hair.

      I was breathless.

      "Stand," said Ellice.

      I made an effort to collect my thoughts. I felt my feet touch the earth, and heard no sound. All around me seemed dead, but the blood throbbed violently in my temples, in my ears was a singular tingling. By degrees my giddiness went away, and I opened my ears.

X.

      We were close by our own lake.

      Straight before us, fringed by willows, lay a great sheet of water, above which floated some cloudlets of fog. To the right the sour green of a barley field; to the left, half-enveloped in mist, my orchard with its great, stiff, greyish trees. The dawn was just reaching them. In oblique streaks, across the pale sky, lay two or three gold-like clouds, touched, as they were, by the first rays of the aurora, yet goodness knows whence they came, for the uniform grey of the heavens gave no hint from what point the sun would rise. One by one the stars vanished. As yet nothing stirred. Nevertheless all nature seemed to awaken in this twilight of exquisite tints.

      "Behold the day!" whispered Ellice: "adieu till to-morrow!"

      I turned towards her, but already she had left the earth, and was floating away in the ether beyond. Of a sudden I saw her raise her hands above her head. This head, those hands, these shoulders all at once assumed a living colour, her deep eyes gleamed, a smile of mysterious softness played upon her reddening lips. It was a charming young girl I beheld. All that, lasted but a moment. As if seized with dizziness, she threw herself backwards, and instantly was dissolved in vapour. For some time I remained motionless and stupified; when I recovered it seemed as if this corporeal beauty, these tints of rosy paleness, had not quite disappeared, and though dissolved in air, that she still floated around me. Perhaps it was the dawn that painted her. I felt fatigued and walked towards home. Passing by the poultry-house, I heard the fowl cackling. They are the earliest risers. Along the roof at the ends of the lathes that confine the thatch, some crows stood sentinel, all busily occupied at their morning toilette. How clearly they stood out against the milky sky! As I drew near they flew away, and a few paces off ranged themselves in a line without uttering a cry. Twice I heard in the neighbouring wood the hoarse chuckle of the black-cock. already searching for wild berries amid the reeking foliage.

      Shivering I hastened to throw myself on the bed. and soon fell into a sound sleep.

XI.

      The following night as I drew near to the blasted oak, Ellice advanced to meet me like an old acquaintance. On my side, all fear had disappeared, and it was almost with pleasure that I approached her. I had ceased to try to fathom the mystery, and now, my only desire was to go fly again and satisfy my curiosity. Soon her arms clasped me, and we take flight.

      "Let us go to Italy?" I whispered in her ear.

      "Whither thou wilt, my beloved," she answered sweetly, but with a little air of triumph.

      Sweetly, too, and triumphantly did she bend her head towards mine. I thought her face appeared less transparent to me than yesterday, her features more feminine and less vapoury; I was reminded of her beautiful aspect at the moment of our parting.

      "To night," said Ellice, "to-night is the glorious night — the night that comes so seldom; when six times thirty —"

      Here I lost some words.

      "It is then that is revealed," she continued, "all that lies hidden at other times."

      "Ellice!" I cried beseechingly "tell me who thou art; do now tell me at last?"

      Without answering, she extended her long white hand, and with a finger against the dark sky she pointed out a spot among the twinkling stars where a comet shone redly.

      "What dost thou mean? Livest thou as a comet, floating 'twixt stars and sun? Knowest thou not men? Or perhaps . . ." But the hand of Ellice pressed across my mouth, I was enveloped in a thick mist that rose from the valley.

      "To Italy! To Italy!" she murmured: "this is the night of nights!"

XII.

      The mist cleared away. An endless plain lay expanded beneath us; already the sensation of a softer, damper air on my cheeks told me I was no longer in Russia, and, besides, this plain had no resemblance to those of our country.

      It was of immense extent, sombre, treeless, deserted. Here and there, scattered over the surface, lay shining pools of stagnant water, like unto scraps of a broken mirror. Far away we could distinguish the gleam of a still and silent sea. Bright stars twinkled through the openings of rolling clouds. From all sides came a swelling buz of many voices — ceaseless, but subdued. These dreamy sounds are the voices of the desert.

      "The Pontine Marshes," said Ellice. "Hearest thou the frogs? Scentest thou the fœtid odour of the sulphur?"

      A great fear seized me. The Pontine Marshes!

      "Why bring me to this cursed and stricken land? Why not to Rome instead?"

      "Prepare! Rome is at hand."

      Across the Latin Way we sped.

      Plunged in the unctuous mire a buffalo lifted his hideous head, covered with short, sharp bristles, and tossed his back-turned horns. He showed the whites of his wicked, stupid eyes, and snorted loudly. Doubtless he had scented us.

      "Roma! Roma! behold!" exclaimed Ellice.

      What is that dark mass at the edge of the horizon? Are those the arches of a giant's bridge? What river does it span? Who gapped it thus? No, it is no bridge. It is an ancient aqueduct. This, then, is the Campagna of the Eternal City. Yonder are the Alban Hills. Their summits, as well as the grey masonry of the aqueducts, are faintly lighted by the rays of the rising moon.

      Now we find ourselves close to a solitary ruin. A palace, a tomb, a bath? Who can say? Ivy clasps it in a cold embrace: low down like gaping jaws was seen the fallen-in roof of an underground vault. A charnel-house stench issued from those well-set stones, whose marble covering had long since disappeared.

      "Now, quick! call twice aloud the name of a great Roman."

      "What will happen?"

      "Thou shalt see."

      I reflected a moment.

      "Dious Caius Julius Cæsar!" I repeated, prolonging the sound — Cæ——sar!

XIII.

      The last echoes of my voice had not died away, when I heard — but no words could describe what took place. First, there came a confused sound, ceaseless, yet scarce perceptible to the ear, of trumpets and clapping of hands. It was like as if far, far down in some bottomless abyss, a vass crowd were in uproar. In quick waves they seethed upwards, ever bellowing, but with stifled cries, such as issue from the breast in those nightmares one thinks eternal. Then the air grew troubled, and thickened above the ruin — shadows came forth, myriads of ghosts, millions of spectres, some rounded like casques, others darting like javelins. Innumerable flashes darted from these spears and helmets in the moonlight; and all this vast army, this countless multitude, pressed onward; approaching nearer by degree — swelling, swelling. Instinctively one felt that the huge mass embued was by one sentiment of dauntless courage that rendered it capable of overthrowing all nations. Yet not a single form was distinct. All at once a new excitement agitated the crowd; its waves severed and fell back:— "Cæsar! Cæsar venit!" uttered thousands of confused voices, like the rustling of forest leaves in a storm.

      A severe, pale head, crowned with a chaplet of laurel leaves — the head of the Imperator — issued slowly from the ruin.

      No! not in human language are these words to express the horror that took possession of me. I thought to myself, let those eyes open, or those lips speak, and I die.

      "Ellice," I cried, "I can bear no more — away! oh! take me away from Rome, terrible Rome!"

      "Coward!" she muttered — and we fled. Behind me I heard the clash of iron, and the hoarse cry of the Roman Legions. Then all was hushed.

XIV.

      Behold! and calm yourself!

      I remember that so delightful was my first sensation I could only sigh. An azury vapour of woolley silver, neither bright, nor yet foggy, enfolded me. At first I could distinguish nothing, but abandoned myself to a heavenly trance. Then the noble outline of beautifully-wooded mountains unrolled before me. Down in the depths of a lake trembled the starlight. I heard the gentle murmur of wavelets flapping on the beach; I freely breathed the perfume of orange-blossoms — as free, as pure, were the brilliant notes of a woman's voice that reached my ear. Attracted, fascinated by scent and sound, I longed to descend.

      We stood in front of a noble villa, with its background of cypress; the sounds proceeded from its open windows. The lake, strewn with orange petals, beat with soft ripples the palace-walls; yonder was an island, clad in the sombre verdure of laurel and lemon-trees, with porticoes, colonades, temples, and statues, all draped in a luminous veil, as it stood projecting high from the bosom of the waters.

      "The Isola-bella, Lago Maggiore," said Ellice.

      "Ah!" I sighed, and stopped. The glowing melody of the songstress enchained me with ever-increasing delight. I must see the face of her who breathes such tones on such a night.

      We drew near the window.

      Surrounded by Grecian sculptures, Etruscan vases, rare plants, precious stuffs, in the midst of a salon decorated in Pompeian style, and that looked more like a museum of antiquities than a modern room, and lighted by high-hanging alabaster lamps, sat a young female before a piano-forte; with bended head and half-closed eyes, she sang an Italian melody. She sang and smiled:— grave, even severe, her countenance revealed an absolute tranquillity of soul — and yet she smiled! And a marble faune of Praxiteles, young and indolent, like this fair girl — like her the spoiled child of tenderness, smiled also, it seemed to me, on her porphyry pedestal, surrounded with vases of roses, while around her ascended the fumes of spiced incense from the bronze urn on the antique tripod.

      It was a scene of perfect loveliness! Enchanted with the voice, the beauty, — intoxicated with the song and the sweet night-air; moved to my very soul with this spectacle of youth, and bloom, and happiness, I entirely forgot my travelling companion; I forgot what mysterious destiny had led me to behold the privacy of an existence so apart and distant from mine.

      I must step to the window and speak. Every member thrilled, as though I had touched a Leyden jar.

      The face of Ellice, in spite of its transparency, grew dark and menacing. In her wide-opened eyes burnt an expression of profound malignity.

      "Let us begone," she said hoarsely.

      Once again, amid winds, and noise, and giddiness. Instead of the cry of the legions, it was the voice of the songstress that vibrated in my ear.

      We alight, but the thrilling note, the self-same note, echoed still, although I hear also other sounds, and breathe another atmosphere. A reviving freshness, as if from a great river, reached me, with odours of new-mown hay, and hemp, and smoke. To the sounds succeed others, and others still, but of such a peculiar character, with modulations so well known to me, that I instantly said to myself, "This is a Russian singer, a Russian song!" At the same moment the surrounding objects grew distinctly visible.

XV.

      We were on the banks of a wide river. Away on one side extended fresh-mown meadows, with great stacks of hay; as far as we could see on the other glistened the broad surface of the water. Near to shore long barges lay quietly at anchor, rolling their long slender masts like telegraph signals. From one of those barks, whence issued the sounds, a bright fire reflected itself in thin, broken, red rays along the rippling river. Both on land and water burnt other fires. Were they near us, or far away? My eyes are deceptive. One instant they flicker into nothingness; then again burst forth brilliantly. Numerous crickets chirped among the grass, equalling in energy the frogs of the Pontine Marshes.

      The sky was cloudless, but lowered dark, and from time to time invisible birds uttered plaintive cries.

      "Are we not in Russia?" I asked my guide.

      "This is the Volga," she replied.

      "Why didst thou take me from that delicious country?" I asked, as we dashed along. "Thou wert vexed, surely, or perhaps a little jealous?"

      Her lips trembled, her looks became cruel; but in an instant her features had assumed their usual immobility.

      "I wish to return home," I said.

      "Patience, patience; this is the night of nights! It comes not soon again. Thou canst, thou mayst behold — just wait a little."

      Then we crossed the Volga, skimming the water with quick turns, hither and thither, like swallows fleeing before a storm. Deep waters rushed beneath us; a sharp wind beat us with strong, cold wing. One bank of the river disappeared into the night, and we approached the rugged cliffs on the opposite shore.

      "Cry 'Saryn na Kitchkow,'"¹ whispered Ellice.

1 These words belong to the Tartar dialect, and are the war cry of the Volga pirates. When the pirates utter this cry on boarding a boat, all the crew thereof must throw themselves on their faces under pain of death.

      I had not yet recovered from the terror caused by the apparition of the Roman Legion. I was fatigued besides, and felt melancholy and courageless. I wished not to pronounce the fatal words, persuaded that they would, as in the wolf's glen, in "Der Freyschütz," call forth some horrible spectacle; but in spite of myself, my lips unclosed, and with a faint, unnatural voice, I cried, —

      "SARYN NA KITCHKOW!"

XVI.

      Here, too, as in the scene on the Campaigna, at first there was a dead silence.

      Then abruptly, close by my very ear, sounded a coarse, brutal laugh, followed by a groan, and the splash of a body falling into the water, and struggling.

      I looked around — No one! A few seconds elapsed, and the echo soon sent back to me the same sounds, and soon from all parts arose a fearful uproar.

      It was a chaos of many noises; human cries, loud whistling, furious oaths, with laughter . . . laughter, more frightful than all the rest. The splashing of oars in the water, blows of the axe, the smashing in of doors and broken coffers, the creaking of the helm, the grinding of wheels on the gravelly beach, the stamping of a multitude of horses, the clang of the tocsin, the clinking of chains, the mournful crackling of large fires, drunken songs, indecent jokes, wailing and despairing supplications, words of command, and groans of the dying, all mingled to the joyous sounds of the fife, and the quick measure of wild dancing.

      Then cries "Kill! hang! To the river to the fire with him! To work, to work! no quarter!" I heard the gasping breath and last sobs of the wretch expiring in the flames, . . . and yet wherever I cast my eyes, nothing met my sight. No change was in the aspect of the country. Before us the river flowed silent and swift. The shore seemed deserted and wild. I turned to Ellice she put her finger to her lip.

      "Here is Stephan Trimofitch!² Long live Stephan Trimofitch!" This cry arose all over the plain. "Long live our chief, our Ataman, our foster-father!"

2 Stephan, or Stenka Razine, Cossack of the Don, was at first a pirate of the Volga and Caspian Sea; afterwards the chief of a formidable insurrection of serfs, who took Astracan, and devastated several provinces of Southern Russia, towards the middle of the seventeenth century. 3 This is the name the serfs give to the nobles.

      Suddenly I felt as if some giant sprung up beside me; he cried with a thundering voice — "Frolka, where art thou, dog? Set fire to all. Hallo! a stroke of the hatchet for these white hands,³ to make sausage meat for me."

      I felt the heat of burnt flesh quite close to me, and the fœtid odour of the smoke, at the same time something warm and liquid, like drops of blood, spurted all over my face and hands. Shrieks of savage laughter rang in my ears. I lost consciousness. When I recovered we were gliding gently by the edge of my forest, at a short distance from the aged oak.

      "Seest thou this winding path down there in the moonlight by the waving birch? Shall we go thither?"

      I was so broken down I could only repeat — "Home, home!"

      And so I was, at my own door and alone.

      Ellice had disappeared. The watch-dog approached, sniffed at me suspiciously, and fled away howling.

      I got to bed, I know not how, and fell asleep without undressing.

(To be continued)

XVII.

ALL the following day my head was on fire, I was scarcely able to move; but it was not my bodily suffering that troubled me most. I was ashamed and vexed with myself.

      "Coward, coward!" I kept repeating. "Yes, Ellice is right, why be frightened? Why not profit by the occasion? I might have seen Cæsar in person, and I lost my head with fright; I trembled like a child at the sight of the rod. . .  As for Stephen, that was another affair, in my quality of aristocrat and proprietor. Yet even so, why be afraid? Coward! coward! Besides, might it not all have been a dream?" I asked myself at last. I called my housekeeper. "Marfa, at what hour did I go to bed last night, do you remember?"

      "Who can say, master; rather late, I believe. As soon as it began to grow dark you left the house. . . . Then tap, tap, went your heels in your chamber till past midnight. . . . Till near morning; yes, truly, till near morning; yes, indeed, master, and that has been going on these three days. Perhaps something has fretted you, master?"

      Well, but these flights, thought I, those courses in the air; how can I doubt them.

      "Marfa, how am I looking to-day?"

      "Eh! what a figure! excuse me, master; but now that I look at you . . . your cheeks are hollow, and you are so pale, so pale! Yes, and you are as yellow as wax."

      Rather out of countenance I sent away Marfa.

      It will kill me, or I shall grow insane, thought I, pondering by my window. I must put a stop to it, for it is too horrible. My heart still throbs loudly. When flying I feel as if my blood was being sucked, or that it escaped drop by drop, as the maple juice flows from the incision made by the axe. That makes me shudder. . . And Ellice? She plays with me like a cat with a mouse. . . .  Perhaps she may have some ugly trick in store for me? No matter, this is the last time I shall trust to her. . . . I will be careful. . . . and — But supposing she drank my blood? . . Oh! horrible! . . Besides such rapid courses must be injurious. They say it is forbidden in England for the railways to go more than 150 miles an hour. A long time I reflected; but as the clock struck ten I stood beside the aged blasted oak.

      The night was black and cold; the air indicated coming rain. To my great surprise I found no one. I walked about for awhile; I went into the wood, returned, always trying to penetrate the obscurity of the gloom. Nobody! After waiting a considerable time I called aloud, "Ellice!" No answer. Again and again, still raising my voice — In vain! I felt dispirited, almost ill. But now were forgotten all the dangers that had preoccupied me during the day. I could not bear to think of Ellice returning to me no more. "Ellice! Ellice! come to me, wilt thou not come?" I cried with anguish.

      A crow, awakened by my voice, darted from the top of a neighbouring tree, cawed, and beat its wings wildly among the branches. But no Ellice.

      With bended head I returned towards my house. I was soon by the side of the lake, and caught glimpses of the lamp in my window, as it was now and then hid by the apple trees. It was like the eye of a guardian watching over me.

      All at once came a sort of gentle flutter in the air, and I felt myself uplifted just as the sparrow is carried off by the hawk. It was Ellice. Her cheek touched mine, and her arm entwined me like a cold chain. She spoke, and her voice, ever subdued like a low murmur, now reached my ear like a frozen zephyr.

      "It is I," was all she said.

      I felt a mixture of joy and terror. We flew along not far from the ground.

      "Thou carest not to come to night?" I asked her.

      "And thou wert sorry? Thou lovest me then? Oh! thou art mine own!"

      These last words troubled me; I knew not what to reply.

      "I could not come," she continued; "they kept me."

      "Who is it that has power to keep thee?"

      "Wither wilt thou go?" asked she, as usual, without answering my question.

      "Take me to Italy, to the Isola Bella, you remember."

      She shook her head with a resolute air. In that moment, for the first time, did I remark that her face was no longer transparent. I caught her eye, and her expression affected me disagreeably. Deep in those eyes gleamed a sinister glare that reminded one of benumbed serpents just reviving in the sun.

      "Ellice," I cried, "tell me, I implore thee, who art thou?"

      She only shrugged her shoulder. I was vexed, and thought I would give her a lesson. I resolved I would ask her to carry me to Paris. There, surely, thought I, she will really find reason to be jealous.

      "Ellice, art afraid of a great city? Of Paris, for example?"

      "No."

      "No? Not of brightly lit streets like the Boulevards?"

      "That is not daylight."

      "Well then take me to the Boulevards."

      She drew the end of her long sleeve over my head. At once I felt myself in a white mist, strongly impregnated with the odour of poppies. Then all disappeared; light, sound, almost consciousness. . . . I scarcely felt I lived, and this feeling of nothingness was not without sweetness. As suddenly the fog melted away. Ellice with drew her drapery, and beneath me I beheld a great number of vast edifices, much light and motion. . . I was at Paris!

XVIII.

      It was not my first visit to Paris, and I recognised the spot where Ellice had brought me. It was the garden of the Tuilleries, with its old chestnut trees, its iron rails, its street cries, like those of a besieged fortress, and its Turco sentinels, looking like wild savages. We left the Palace, passed by the church of St. Roche, and reached the Boulevard des Italiens. Crowds of people — young and old, workmen in blouses, ladies in grande toilette, jostled each other on the footway. Restaurants and begilded cafés blazed with a thousand lamps. Omnibuses, drags, carriages of every sort and every build, fled rapidly along the street. All so dazzling, so bewildering, one knew not where to look. Yet, most strange, I felt not the least desire to leave the high, pure air, and join this human anthill.

      A reddish, heavy, warm, dubious smelling vapour ascended to me. Pah! one suffocates in such an atmosphere. As I hesitated, almost like the whistle of a locomotive, I heard the voice of a lorette. Her words were impure, and touched me like the sting of vermin. Then I recalled the hard, flat, pasty face of the true Parisian type, with greedy, eager eyes; I thought of rouge and violet powder, and crèped hair; of masses of artificial flowers in liliputian bonnets; of finger-nails cut like claws, and gigantic crinolines. I thought too of our moral provincial friend, who passes for a steady man, running after one of those spring-dolls exposed for sale. I see him mystified and gawkish, imitating the manners of the waiters at Véfours, grimacing with many bows and platitudes. Seized with disgust, I said to myself, "It is not here that Ellice need be jealous." I observed we were descending. . . . Paris sent all her noises and all her smells to meet us.

      "Stay," said I to Ellice, "do you not feel suffocating?"

      "It was your own desire to come to Paris."

      "I was wrong, and have changed my mind. Ellice, do carry me fast away! Hold! just look at Prince Katrinska walking yonder! and his friend Varaxin calls out to him, 'Let us go with these pets, and have some supper!'

      "Oh! yes, take me away far from Mabille and the Maison Dorée; far from the Jockey Club, from soldiers with shaven crowns and palatial barracks; far from sergents de ville, and milky glasses of absinthe; from players at dominoes, and players on the Bourse, from scraps of red ribbon in button-hole of coat and paletot, far from lectures on literature and government pamphlets, far from the Bouffes Parisiennes, and Parisian operas, and Parisian politics, and Parisian blackguardism! Away! away! away!"

      "Look down," said Ellice, "you are no longer at Paris."

      I reopened my eyes. A dark plain ruled by the whitish lines traced by the roads, glided rapidly beneath us. As far as the horizon, as from a great fire, the heavens loomed with the reddish glare reflected from the millions of lamps that illuminate the great capital of civilization.

XIX.

      Once more the sleeve of Ellice fell across my brow; once more I lost consciousness; once more the cloud dissolved.

      "Where are we? What is this park, with alleys of lime-trees clipped like walls, with pines spread out like umbrellas, with porticoes and temples in the Pompadour taste, and these rococo statues of Bernini nymphs, and tritons in the centre of fountains surrounded by balustrades of stained marble? Can it be Versailles? No, it is not Versailles; it is too shabby. The palace, rococo also, stands out from a mass of shaggy oaks. The moon is dim, shadowed by clouds; one might fancy it was a layer of smoke that lay over the earth; what it really is the eye cannot distinguish. Beyond, on one of the basins, a swan floats sleeping. His pure plumage reminds me of the snow of our steppes enchained by the frost. Here and there glow-worms shine like diamonds in the grass, and on the pedestals of the statues.

      "We are near Mannheim," said Ellice. "This is the park of Schweitzingen."

      "Ah! we are in Germany, then;" and I listened.

      All was dumb save one solitary and invisible brook that trickled down an incline. I fancied the water repeated always the same words: "Here, there: here, there!" Between high walls of verdure on the pathway I perceived a gentleman with an embroidered coat; on his feet red-heeled shoes, and by his side swung a slender rapier. With exquisite grace he gave his hand to a beautiful lady, all powdered and curled, and in hooped petticoats.

      Quaint, pale phantoms! I tried to see them nearer, but they vanished, and I only heard the ceaseless cadence of the brook:— "Here, there: here, there."

      "See! The dreams are abroad," said Ellice. "Last night it was different, we could have seen other sights — grand sights; but to-night even dreams vanish from the eyes of man. Let us be going."

      We glided on so swiftly that I felt not the least motion. Dark and dented mountains clothed with forests met, then flitted from our gaze, followed by other mountains with all their undulations, their precipices, their clearings, their gleams of light from chalet windows, their foaming torrents, and ever mountain followed mountain. We were in the heart of the Black Forest. Glorious woods, aged, yet full of vigorous life! The night is clear; I distinguish all sorts of trees, more especially tall pines with straight rugged trunks. Sometimes, in the clearings, herds of deer showed themselves standing nobly on their slender limbs, and, with graceful turned head, they listened with ears expanded like the mouth of a trumpet.

      The ruin of a donjon on the summit of a bare rock lifts its fissured battlements gloomily into the clouds. Above the old mouldering stones peacefully twinkled a little star. From a small black pond issued a mysterious lament, the mournful croaking of young toads. Other sounds caught my ear. They came from afar, like unto the deep and tremulous wail of the Æolian harp. We were in the land of legends. Here, again, the same smoky vapour floated all around close to earth, that I had remarked at Schweitzingen. In the valleys it was densest. I counted five, six, ten different shades of it on the mountain sides, and over all this dreary and monotonous space the lady moon reigned supreme. The air was clear and lightsome; I felt lightsome myself, and at the same time strangely calm and sad. "Ellice," I said, "you ought to love this country."

      "I? I love nothing."

      "What! Not even me?"

      "Oh! of course thee," she replied, carelessly. I thought I felt her arm tighten round me with fresh ardour.

      "Onward! onward!" she cried, with a kind of cold enthusiasm.

      A prolonged ronglade sounded suddenly a little way high before us.

      "It is the rear-guard of the storks en route towards the north. Let us join them if thou wilt?"

      "Yes, let us fly with the storks."

      Thirteen large birds of elegant form, ranged in triangle, advanced rapidly with vigorous darts, that were renewed at rather long intervals. Spreading their rounded wings, stiffening their necks and legs, swelling their full breasts, they sped with such impetuosity that the air whistled around them.

      How strange to see at such a height, so far from living creature, this bold and energetic life, this invincible will. Without ceasing to cleave the air, from time to time the storks exchanged signals with their comrades at the triangles; and in this conversation in the high heavens, in those piercing cries was revealed the pride of dominating a perilous situation, and of absolute confidence in their own strength. "We shall reach the goal in spite of fatigue," they screamed, encouraging one another.

      I thought myself in Russia. . . . Aye, even in Russia there are few men as strong as these birds.

      "Now we are off to Russia," whispered Ellice.

      It was not the first time that I observed that almost always she read my thoughts.

      "Would'st thou change our route?" she asked.

      "Change? . . . No. I come from Paris, let us go to Petersburg."

      "Now?"

      "At once. But cover me with thy mantle for fear of dizziness."

      Ellice extended her hand; . . . but, before the mist enveloped me, I felt on my lips the contact of the smooth dart, whose slight sting I had already experienced.

XX.

      Beware! . . ware . . . ware This prolonged cry tingled in my ears. Beware! . . . ware . . . ware! was answered from the distance with a despairing effort. Beware! . . . . are . . . . a . . r . . e . . ! The cry expired somewhere at the end of the earth.

      I roused myself. A great gilt staff stood before me. I recognised the fort of Petersburg. Pale night of the North! But is this night? is it not rather a pale and sickly day? The nights of Petersburg I never liked, but this one frightened me. The face of Ellice had completely disappeared, like a thick fog before a July sun; and yet my own person I could see distinctly suspended in mid-air at the height of Alexander's Pillar.

      This is Petersburg, with its wide ash-coloured streets — these houses of whitish-grey, greyish-yellow, greyish-lilac, plastered with scaled-off stucco — their deep-set windows, their signboards of gaudy colours, their iron fanlights over the doorways; the dirty fruit-stalls, the trumpery Greek architecture, the flaring advertisements, the carriage sheds, the police offices! Here is the gilt cupola of St. Isaac, and the useless Bourse with its gimcrack ornaments, its fortress-like walls of granite, and its wooden pavement full of ruts.

      Familiar to me are those barges laden with hay and faggots; I recognise the odours of dust and cabbage, of oak bark and of stable, these porters frozen in their sheepskin pelisses, these coachmen asleep on their drowski. Yes, this is indeed our Palmyra of the North! All is bright, all stands out with a clearness that dazes me; and all Nature sleeps in this diaphanous yet impure atmosphere. The rose-colour of last night's sunset, like bloom on the consumptive cheek, is not yet effaced; there will it linger on the pale starless sky till dawn. It casts a long-rayed reflection on the wavy waters of the Neva, that ebbs on gently its cold blue current towards the sea.

      "Let us be going," said Ellice.

      Without awaiting a response she carried me to the off-shore of the river, beyond the Palace Square. Below I heard the sound of foot-steps and voices. Through the streets pass a group of weary-looking men who discoursed of the ballet. Close by a mound of rusty bullets a sentinel, startled from his doze, cried, "Who goes there?" A little further on, at the open window of a fine house, sat a young girl in a slatternly silk gown, with bare neck and arms, her hair bound in a pearl net, and a cigarette between her rosy lips. Her attention was absorbed in a book. It was a volume due to the pen of a modern Juvenal.

      "Away quickly," I whispered Ellice.

      The reedy marshes and clumps of stunted pines that encompass Petersburg vanish quickly. By degrees the heavens and earth grow dark and indistinct, for we journey southward. Adieu, pale night, garish day, sickly city, adieu!

XXI.

      We flew more slowly than usual, my eye could follow the various landscapes that presented themselves. It was an endless panorama that unfolded itself before me: woods, heaths, rivers, mountains, lakes; here and there churches and hamlets: then again more forests, glens, plains.

      I was in bad temper, nervous, and weary. Not cross and weary because I traversed my native land. — No!

      But this earth, this flat expanse beneath me; all the terrestrial globe, with its ephemeral, puny inhabitants struggling against want and pain and misery — confined to this wretched clod of dust. . . This rugged and fragile crust; this excrescence on this sand-grain planet of ours-upon which clings a mould, dignified by us with the title of vegetable kingdom. . . . Those man-flies, a thousand times more despicable than real flies, their dwellings in the mud, the red traces of their silly, monotonous quarrels, their ridiculous strivings against the immutable and inevitable. . .

      Ah! how odious was all this to me! By degrees my heart grew sore, I would no longer contemplate a picture so insignificant, a caricature so debasing. I was weary, more than weary; I even felt no longer pity for my brethren. All my feelings resolved into one — one that I scarcely dare to confess — disgust, and what is more, disgust of myself.

      "Have done," murmured Ellice, "have done, or I can no longer bear thee up; thou growest heavy."

      "Home!" I said, in such a tone as I would have addressed to my coachman.

      "Home!" I repeated, and I closed my eyes.

XXII.

      I reopened them soon, for Ellice held me fast in a strange way, as though she would stifle me. I glanced at her, and my blood ran cold. He who has seen a human countenance express a sudden fright without any apparent cause, will understand my feelings. Horror, the most extreme terror, contracted and transformed her features. Never did I see the like on living face. . . . A loneless phantom, a superhuman creature, a shadow; and yet this terrible fear! . . .

      "Ellice, what ails thee?"

      "It is she! It is she!"

      "She! Who is she?"

      "Breathe not her name! Hush! Say it not!" she stammered quickly. — "We must fly! All hope is past! . . . . And for ever! Look! look!"

      I turned my eyes in the direction of her trembling hand, and perceived a something — something truly frightful. This something was all the more horrible that it had not a determined form. . . . It was a heavy, sombre mass, of a yellowish black, speckled like a lizard's belly. It was neither a cloud nor a fog. The Thing dragged itself slowly along the earth after the manner of a reptile; then gave, all of a sudden, a great whirl, now above, now below, like to the action of a bird of prey about to seize its victim. At times it lowered itself to the earth with hideous plunges. Thus does the spider dart upon the fly caught in its web.

      What art thou, ghastly monster? . . . . — At its approach, — How I saw it, I felt it, — All nature was stricken with numbness, all creation fell into dissolution. A plague-laden, venomous chill spread around, and as this chill struck one, the heart fluttered, the eyes ceased to behold, the hair stiffened on the head. It was a power in movement, an invincible force nothing checks; — that formless, sightless, mindless, — sees all, knows all, kills all! Eager as the tiger for its prey, subtle as the serpent, and, like him, armed with an icy dart.

      "Ellice! Ellice!" I cried, shuddering; "It is Death! It is Death."

      A cry of anguish, such as I heard once before, issued from her lips, but this time it was the cry of despair! We fled precipitously, ever changing our course, like the wounded partridge mother that strives to entice the fowler from her young. Still the formless mass sent out feelers like immense arms, as if in pursuit. . . . grabbing at us with horny claws. . . . Then appeared in the heavens a gigantic spectre riding a pale horse. . . . Ellice redoubled her despairing efforts. — She has seen us! . . . I am lost!" she sobbed. "Alas! Alas! I might have been. — Life should have been mine. . . . And now — Now lost! lost!" Whilst listening to these half-whispered words, I fainted.

XXIII.
Conclusion.

      When I returned to consciousness, I found myself lying on the grass, and in all my members I felt a heavy pain, as after a severe fall.

      Dawn broke, and objects were becoming distinct. At some distance from me was an aspen-bordered road, close by a forest. I recognised the place; I began to recall the events of the night, and I shuddered at the thought of the horrible spectre I had seen. — "But why, thought I, was Ellice so terrified? Can she also be subject to its empire? Perhaps she may not be immortal, perhaps she also is predestined to destruction — to nothingness! Can it be possible? I heard a low sigh near me; I turned. A couple of feet from me lay motionless a white-robed young female on the grass. Her long fair hair was dishevelled, and one shoulder was bare. One hand was under her head, the other rested on her bosom; her eyes were closed, and on her shut lips I saw something like a bloody foam.

      "Is this Ellice? But Ellice was a phantom, and this is a woman of flesh and blood." I dragged myself towards her, and stooping over her, asked — "Ellice, is it thou?" Then she shivered, her eyelids unclosed, and her large black eyes were fixed on me. I felt as if transfixed by her look. . . . and almost at the same moment, on my lips were pressed other lips; warm, soft, but with a smell of blood.

      I felt her burning bosom upon my breast, while her arms clasped my neck. — "Adieu, adieu for ever!" she said with an expiring voice. . . . Once more all disappeared.

      I got up staggering like a drunken man; for a long time I searched around, passing from time to time my hands across my eyes. At length I found myself on the road to N——, two miles from my house. The sun had risen long before I reached home.

      The following night I waited, and I confess, not without fear, the coming of my phantom, but no one ever came. Once I went at night to the old oak, but saw nothing extraordinary. I regretted little my strange adventures. Long have I pondered over all the circumstances; I convinced myself that science could explain them not, and that legends and traditions spoke not of the like. Who was Ellice? An apparition, a soul in trouble, an evil spirit, a vampire? Often it seemed as if Ellice was some woman I had formerly known. . . . In vain I strove to remember where I had seen her. . . . Once. . . . To-day This very moment, I remember. . . . Where? . . . No; all is confused in my memory, as in a dream. . . . Yes; long have I thought over it, but am no wiser. I could not resolve to ask the opinions of my friends for fear of passing for a fool. At last I determined to think no more about it, and, indeed, I have plenty of other things to occupy me. . . . One is the management of my estate on account of the emancipation of the serfs. Another is my health, which is much impaired. My chest is delicate, I have a bad cough, and cannot sleep. I have grown very thin and pale. The doctor says my blood is poor. He says I must go to Gastein. My steward swears that without me he will never be able to settle with the serfs. By Jove! let him settle with them as best he can!

      But what mean these clear ringing chords, like those of a harmonica, that I hear every time they speak of anyone's death before me? Ever they grow stronger and stronger, sharper and sharper. And why this painful shudder at the mere thought of dying? . . . .