That portrait is of
a young man, with a pale face, a stately brow, and a strange expression
about the eyes, which no one cared to look on twice. There is a stately bed in that chamber, of carved walnut-wood is it
made, rich in design and elaborate in execution; one of those works of
art which owe their existence to the Elizabethan era. It is hung with
heavy silken and damask furnishing; nodding feathers are at its
corners--covered with dust are they, and they lend a funereal aspect to
the room. The floor is of polished oak. God! how the hail dashes on the old bay window! Like an occasional
discharge of mimic musketry, it comes clashing, beating, and cracking
upon the small panes; but they resist it--their small size saves them;
the wind, the hail, the rain, expend their fury in vain. The bed in that old chamber is occupied. A creature formed in all
fashions of loveliness lies in a half sleep upon that ancient couch--a
girl young and beautiful as a spring morning. Her long hair has escaped
from its confinement and streams over the blackened coverings of the
bedstead; she has been restless in her sleep, for the clothing of the
bed is in much confusion. One arm is over her head, the other hangs
nearly off the side of the bed near to which she lies. A neck and bosom
that would have formed a study for the rarest sculptor that ever
Providence gave genius to, were half disclosed. She moaned slightly in
her sleep, and once or twice the lips moved as if in prayer--at least
one might judge so, for the name of Him who suffered for all came once
faintly from them. She has endured much fatigue, and the storm does not awaken her; but it
can disturb the slumbers it does not possess the power to destroy
entirely. The turmoil of the elements wakes the senses, although it
cannot entirely break the repose they have lapsed into. Oh, what a world of witchery was in that mouth, slightly parted, and
exhibiting within the pearly teeth that glistened even in the faint
light that came from that bay window. How sweetly the long silken
eyelashes lay upon the cheek. Now she moves, and one shoulder is
entirely visible--whiter, fairer than the spotless clothing of the bed
on which she lies, is the smooth skin of that fair creature, just
budding into womanhood, and in that transition state which presents to
us all the charms of the girl--almost of the child, with the more
matured beauty and gentleness of advancing years. Was that lightning? Yes--an awful, vivid, terrifying flash--then a
roaring peal of thunder, as if a thousand mountains were rolling one
over the other in the blue vault of Heaven! Who sleeps now in that
ancient city? Not one living soul. The dread trumpet of eternity could
not more effectually have awakened any one. The hail continues. The wind continues. The uproar of the elements seems
at its height. Now she awakens--that beautiful girl on the antique bed;
she opens those eyes of celestial blue, and a faint cry of alarm bursts
from her lips. At least it is a cry which, amid the noise and turmoil
without, sounds but faint and weak. She sits upon the bed and presses
her hands upon her eyes. Heavens! what a wild torrent of wind, and rain,
and hail! The thunder likewise seems intent upon awakening sufficient
echoes to last until the next flash of forked lightning should again
produce the wild concussion of the air. She murmurs a prayer--a prayer
for those she loves best; the names of those dear to her gentle heart
come from her lips; she weeps and prays; she thinks then of what
devastation the storm must surely produce, and to the great God of
Heaven she prays for all living things. Another flash--a wild, blue,
bewildering flash of lightning streams across that bay window, for an
instant bringing out every colour in it with terrible distinctness. A
shriek bursts from the lips of the young girl, and then, with eyes fixed
upon that window, which, in another moment, is all darkness, and with
such an expression of terror upon her face as it had never before known,
she trembled, and the perspiration of intense fear stood upon her brow. "What--what was it?" she gasped; "real, or a delusion? Oh, God, what was
it? A figure tall and gaunt, endeavouring from the outside to unclasp
the window. I saw it. That flash of lightning revealed it to me. It
stood the whole length of the window." There was a lull of the wind. The hail was not falling so
thickly--moreover, it now fell, what there was of it, straight, and yet
a strange clattering sound came upon the glass of that long window. It
could not be a delusion--she is awake, and she hears it. What can
produce it? Another flash of lightning--another shriek--there could be
now no delusion. A tall figure is standing on the ledge immediately outside the long
window. It is its finger-nails upon the glass that produces the sound so
like the hail, now that the hail has ceased. Intense fear paralysed the
limbs of that beautiful girl. That one shriek is all she can utter--with
hands clasped, a face of marble, a heart beating so wildly in her bosom,
that each moment it seems as if it would break its confines, eyes
distended and fixed upon the window, she waits, froze with horror. The
pattering and clattering of the nails continue. No word is spoken, and
now she fancies she can trace the darker form of that figure against the
window, and she can see the long arms moving to and fro, feeling for
some mode of entrance. What strange light is that which now gradually
creeps up into the air? red and terrible--brighter and brighter it
grows. The lightning has set fire to a mill, and the reflection of the
rapidly consuming building falls upon that long window. There can be no
mistake. The figure is there, still feeling for an entrance, and
clattering against the glass with its long nails, that appear as if the
growth of many years had been untouched. She tries to scream again but a
choking sensation comes over her, and she cannot. It is too
dreadful--she tries to move--each limb seems weighed down by tons of
lead--she can but in a hoarse faint whisper cry,--

"Help--help--help--help!" And that one word she repeats like a person in a dream. The red glare of
the fire continues. It throws up the tall gaunt figure in hideous relief
against the long window. It shows, too, upon the one portrait that is in
the chamber, and that portrait appears to fix its eyes upon the
attempting intruder, while the flickering light from the fire makes it
look fearfully life-like. A small pane of glass is broken, and the form
from without introduces a long gaunt hand, which seems utterly destitute
of flesh. The fastening is removed, and one-half of the window, which
opens like folding doors, is swung wide open upon its hinges. And yet now she could not scream--she could not move. "Help!--help!--help!" was all she could say.