There, outside on the balcony, in the now brilliant moonlight, stood a
woman, wrapped in white grave-clothes saturated with water, which dripped
on the marble floor, making a pool which trickled slowly down the wet
steps. Attitude and dress and circumstance all conveyed the idea that,
though she moved and spoke, she was not quick, but dead. She was young
and very beautiful, but pale, like the grey pallor of death. Through the
still white of her face, which made her look as cold as the wet marble
she stood on, her dark eyes seemed to gleam with a strange but enticing
lustre. Even in the unsearching moonlight, which is after all rather
deceptive than illuminative, I could not but notice one rare quality of
her eyes. Each had some quality of refraction which made it look as
though it contained a star. At every movement she made, the stars
exhibited new beauties, of more rare and radiant force. She looked at me
imploringly as the heavy curtain rolled back, and in eloquent gestures
implored me to admit her. Instinctively I obeyed; I rolled back the
steel grille, and threw open the French window. I noticed that she
shivered and trembled as the glass door fell open. Indeed, she seemed so
overcome with cold as to seem almost unable to move. In the sense of her
helplessness all idea of the strangeness of the situation entirely
disappeared. It was not as if my first idea of death taken from her
cerements was negatived. It was simply that I did not think of it at
all; I was content to accept things as they were--she was a woman, and in
some dreadful trouble; that was enough. I am thus particular about my own emotions, as I may have to refer to
them again in matters of comprehension or comparison. The whole thing is
so vastly strange and abnormal that the least thing may afterwards give
some guiding light or clue to something otherwise not understandable. I
have always found that in recondite matters first impressions are of more
real value than later conclusions. We humans place far too little
reliance on instinct as against reason; and yet instinct is the great
gift of Nature to all animals for their protection and the fulfilment of
their functions generally. When I stepped out on the balcony, not thinking of my costume, I found
that the woman was benumbed and hardly able to move. Even when I asked
her to enter, and supplemented my words with gestures in case she should
not understand my language, she stood stock-still, only rocking slightly
to and fro as though she had just strength enough left to balance herself
on her feet. I was afraid, from the condition in which she was, that she
might drop down dead at any moment. So I took her by the hand to lead
her in. But she seemed too weak to even make the attempt. When I pulled
her slightly forward, thinking to help her, she tottered, and would have
fallen had I not caught her in my arms. Then, half lifting her, I moved
her forwards. Her feet, relieved of her weight, now seemed able to make
the necessary effort; and so, I almost carrying her, we moved into the
room. She was at the very end of her strength; I had to lift her over
the sill. In obedience to her motion, I closed the French window and
bolted it. I supposed the warmth of the room--though cool, it was warmer
than the damp air without--affected her quickly, for on the instant she
seemed to begin to recover herself. In a few seconds, as though she had
reacquired her strength, she herself pulled the heavy curtain across the
window. This left us in darkness, through which I heard her say in
English:

"Light. Get a light!" I found matches, and at once lit a candle. As the wick flared, she moved
over to the door of the room, and tried if the lock and bolt were
fastened. Satisfied as to this, she moved towards me, her wet shroud
leaving a trail of moisture on the green carpet. By this time the wax of
the candle had melted sufficiently to let me see her clearly. She was
shaking and quivering as though in an ague; she drew the wet shroud
around her piteously. Instinctively I spoke:

"Can I do anything for you?" She answered, still in English, and in a voice of thrilling, almost
piercing sweetness, which seemed somehow to go straight to my heart, and
affected me strangely: "Give me warmth." I hurried to the fireplace. It was empty; there was no fire laid. I
turned to her, and said:

"Wait just a few minutes here. I shall call someone, and get help--and
fire." Her voice seemed to ring with intensity as she answered without a pause:

"No, no! Rather would I be"--here she hesitated for an instant, but as
she caught sight of her cerements went on hurriedly--"as I am. I trust
you--not others; and you must not betray my trust." Almost instantly she
fell into a frightful fit of shivering, drawing again her death-clothes
close to her, so piteously that it wrung my heart. I suppose I am a
practical man. At any rate, I am accustomed to action. I took from its
place beside my bed a thick Jaeger dressing-gown of dark brown--it was,
of course, of extra length--and held it out to her as I said:

"Put that on. It is the only warm thing here which would be suitable. Stay; you must remove that wet--wet"--I stumbled about for a word that
would not be offensive--"that frock--dress--costume--whatever it is." I
pointed to where, in the corner of the room, stood a chintz-covered
folding-screen which fences in my cold sponge bath, which is laid ready
for me overnight, as I am an early riser. She bowed gravely, and taking the dressing-gown in a long, white,
finely-shaped hand, bore it behind the screen. There was a slight
rustle, and then a hollow "flop" as the wet garment fell on the floor;
more rustling and rubbing, and a minute later she emerged wrapped from
head to foot in the long Jaeger garment, which trailed on the floor
behind her, though she was a tall woman. She was still shivering
painfully, however. I took a flask of brandy and a glass from a
cupboard, and offered her some; but with a motion of her hand she refused
it, though she moaned grievously. "Oh, I am so cold--so cold!" Her teeth were chattering. I was pained at
her sad condition, and said despairingly, for I was at my wits' end to
know what to do:

"Tell me anything that I can do to help you, and I will do it. I may not
call help; there is no fire--nothing to make it with; you will not take
some brandy. What on earth can I do to give you warmth?" Her answer certainly surprised me when it came, though it was practical
enough--so practical that I should not have dared to say it. She looked
me straight in the face for a few seconds before speaking. Then, with an
air of girlish innocence which disarmed suspicion and convinced me at
once of her simple faith, she said in a voice that at once thrilled me
and evoked all my pity:

"Let me rest for a while, and cover me up with rugs. That may give me
warmth. I am dying of cold. And I have a deadly fear upon me--a deadly
fear. Sit by me, and let me hold your hand.