I set off at a brisk pace; the sun had just risen, a silver mist was
rising, and a gentle breeze somewhat alleviated the fever of my burning
brow, but my legs felt weak. I tottered on for half-a-mile further; here
I found a mile-stone and sat down to rest upon it. My reflections were
gloomy. My recollections of the previous night were painfully vivid. My
dream, my vision, my spiritual visitation, or whatever you like to call
it, did not vanish upon waking, like an ordinary dream, but remained
deeply rooted in my brain with fearful accuracy of detail. I recollected
word for word all the monster had uttered; recalled his tone of voice,
his remarkable shape--that curious and hideous blending of the
characteristics of the flea with the human form, the revolting, fiendish
ugliness of the _tout ensemble_, but above all, of that basilisk eye. My
blood ran cold as I thought of it. "Have I then lived to hold converse with a being of the lower world?" I
muttered, to myself. "Am I awake, or is this but a continuation of the
dream?" I gave my arm a pinch, a hard twisted pinch, with all my might
and main, to ascertain if I were sleeping or waking, but the scene
before me remained the same, and my recollections of the past night were
as vivid as ever. I took off my hat to wipe my brow and let the cool
breeze play with my locks and about my heated temples. I gazed at the
smiling scene around me. What a contrast to the hell I bore within. "O glorious orb!" I ejaculated, "author and vivifier of all nature,
through every grade of creation, illumine the haunted chambers of my
dark soul with thy golden beams; bring balm to my jaded spirit and renew
the bright hope of my earlier years. Give me strength to bear my
tottering limbs to the end of my pilgrimage; or, if that be not granted
me, take all there is left--take my life, great orb of day! Type of my
own once aspiring youth, quicken my flagging energies and breathe into
me new life, new hope, new strength." Whilst thus apostrophising the rising sun, I experienced something like
the fire of my boyish days returning to my frame. I actually felt an
appetite. I rose from my seat considerably refreshed, and continued my
journey. I walked on with buoyant step; I had all but forgotten the
adventure of the past night. If it rose up before me again at intervals,
I speedily chased it from my mind. At length I espied the village in the distance. Another half-mile led me
up to the door of "The Swan Inn." It was then about seven o'clock. A raw
country youth, evidently the boots, was beating a mat outside the door. "Is the Baron within?" I asked. "Wal, he b'ain't up yet, zur," replied the youth. "Oh, never mind," I said, "I will wait, and as soon as he is up tell him
a gentleman is waiting to see him." "Very well, zur." "Would you like to wait here in the parlour, sir?" said the buxom
landlady, who had overheard our dialogue. "The Baron can't be long; he
is generally up by this time, or if you will follow me, sir, I will
knock at his door, and you can wait in his sitting-room till he comes
out." "Thank you," I said, as I followed the landlady upstairs, and was led
into the sitting-room. The landlady knocked at the Baron's door. No
answer. "Don't awake him, pray," said I, "if he's asleep." "Oh, but the Baron told me to call him early, sir." She knocked again. Again no answer. The landlady paused a few moments to
listen if he was getting up, then tapped again louder, louder still, but
all was silent. The hostess ventured to open the door ajar. The Baron
was in bed. She entered the room. A pause, a slight scream, and the
landlady came running out to me, pale and terrified. "Oh, sir," she said, in a faint voice, "the Baron--the
Baron--is--_dead_!" "_Dead!_" I exclaimed. "When? how?" "It is true, sir. Come and see." I entered the Baron's chamber. There he lay, sure enough, to all
appearance dead. I touched him; he was as cold as ice. I was much struck
with the singular resemblance of the defunct Baron before me to the
portrait of Baron Ralph that hung over the mantelpiece in my chamber. It
is true that the Baron before me was a younger man, that he wore a
shaven face instead of a moustache and peaked beard, that the livid
colour of the corpse was unlike the florid complexion of Baron Ralph;
but the features were exact, the shape of the head, the colour of the
hair and the way it grew; the same tufted red eyebrows, the right one
considerably higher than the left; the same bent flat nose and tightly
compressed lips, with cruel lines at the corners; the chin, the jaw, the
deep line between the brows, in fact, the whole man seemed the exact
counterpart of the old Baron. A horrible recollection passed through my mind. I remembered having seen
the criminal before alluded to after his execution. What a startling
likeness between the features of the executed criminal and those of the
Baron's corpse before me. I shuddered. A portion of the phantom's
conversation on the preceding night occurred to me suddenly. What
if--could it be that----

I called the landlady. The whole inn was in a state of confusion. The
news of the Baron's death had circulated through the whole village by
this time. "Perhaps," said I, "the Baron may not be quite dead, he may be in a
trance, he may be---- At any rate, don't you think it would be best to
send for the doctor, to hear his opinion?" The doctor was accordingly sent for, and arriving shortly, was at once
shown into the Baron's room. The landlady and a great part of the
household followed. "Why, of course he's dead," replied the leech, brusquely, in answer to
their eager questions. "Can't you see that?" "If, nevertheless," said I, timidly, "you would not mind opening a
vein----"

"I'll open a vein, if you like," he answered, bluntly; "but, I tell you,
the man's dead!" Then, taking out his lancet, he opened a vein in the right arm. "You see now, I hope," said the leech, "that it is utterly useless;
there is not a drop of blood." "Then," said the landlady, "the Baron really _is_--dead?" "Dead! _Dead as mutton_," replied the doctor. At this juncture the face of the corpse grew violently convulsed, his
eyes rolled, the colour returned suddenly to his cheeks, and leaping
from the bed with terrific energy, he seized the bolster, with which he
belaboured the terrified inmates of "The Swan" right and left, knocking
over the little doctor, and sending me into the landlady's lap, and the
"boots" flying out of the room with a yell of terror, besides upsetting
every utensil of crockery that stood in the way. "Dead, am I!" roared the Baron, "dead, eh! Where's that scurvy
apothecary--that spreader of plaisters, that pill-maker, that
cow-bleeder--that dared to open one of _my_ veins?" The little doctor had crept under the bed. "And you, sir," cried he, turning upon me, "for advising him to try his
filthy experiments upon me," and swinging round his bolster, sent me
tottering against the wall. "Dead as _mutton_, eh!