Young Melmoth, (whose name perhaps the reader has
forgot), did “seriously incline” to the purpose of having his dangerous
curiosity further gratified, nor was he perhaps altogether without the
wild hope of seeing the original of that portrait he had destroyed,
burst from the walls and take up the fearful tale himself. The narrative of the Spaniard had occupied many days; at their
termination, young Melmoth signified to his guest that he was prepared
to hear the sequel. A night was fixed for the continuation of the recital. Young Melmoth and
his guest met in the usual apartment--it was a dreary, stormy night--the
rain that had fallen all day, seemed now to have yielded to the wind,
that came in strong and sudden bursts, suddenly hushed, as if collecting
strength for the tempest of the night. Monçada and Melmoth drew their
chairs closer to the fire, looking at each other with the aspect of men
who wish to inspire each other with courage to listen, and to tell, and
are the more eager to inspire it, because neither feels it himself. At length Monçada collected his voice and resolution to proceed, but as
he went on, he perceived he could not fix his hearer’s attention, and he
paused. “I thought,” said Melmoth, answering his silence, “I thought I heard a
noise--as of a person walking in the passage.” “Hush! and listen,” said
Monçada, “I would not wish to be overheard.” They paused and held their
breath--the sound was renewed--it was evidently that of steps
approaching the door, and then retiring from it. “We are watched,” said
Melmoth, half-rising from his chair, but at that moment the door opened,
and a figure appeared at it, which Monçada recognized for the subject of
his narrative, and his mysterious visitor in the prison of the
Inquisition, and Melmoth for the original of the picture, and the being
whose unaccountable appearance had filled him with consternation, as he
sat beside his dying uncle’s bed. The figure stood at the door for some time, and then advancing slowly
till it gained the centre of the room, it remained there fixed for some
time, but without looking at them. It then approached the table where
they sat, in a slow but distinctly heard step, and stood before them as
a living being. The profound horror that was equally felt by both, was
differently expressed by each. Monçada crossed himself repeatedly, and
attempted to utter many prayers. Melmoth, nailed to his chair, fixed his
sightless eyes on the form that stood before him--it was indeed Melmoth
the Wanderer--the same as he was in the past century--the same as he may
be in centuries to come, should the fearful terms of his existence be
renewed. His “natural force was not abated,” but “his eye was
dim,”--that appalling and supernatural lustre of the visual organ, that
beacon lit by an infernal fire, to tempt or to warn the adventurers of
despair from that coast on which many struck, and some sunk--that
portentous light was no longer visible--the form and figure were those
of a living man, of the age indicated in the portrait which the young
Melmoth had destroyed, but the eyes were as the eyes of the dead. * * *
* * *

As the Wanderer advanced still nearer till his figure touched the table,
Monçada and Melmoth started up in irrepressible horror, and stood in
attitudes of defence, though conscious at the moment that all defence
was hopeless against a being that withered and mocked at human power. The Wanderer waved his arm with an action that spoke defiance without
hostility--and the strange and solemn accents of the only human voice
that had respired mortal air beyond the period of mortal life, and never
spoken but to the ear of guilt or suffering, and never uttered to that
ear aught but despair, rolled slowly on their hearing like a peal of
distant thunder. “Mortals--you are here to talk of my destiny, and of the events which it
has involved. That destiny is accomplished, I believe, and with it
terminate those events that have stimulated your wild and wretched
curiosity. I am here to tell you of both!--I--I--of whom you speak, am
here!--Who can tell so well of Melmoth the Wanderer as himself, now that
he is about to resign that existence which has been the object of terror
and wonder to the world?--Melmoth, you behold your ancestor--the being
on whose portrait is inscribed the date of a century and a half, is
before you.--Monçada, you see an acquaintance of a later date.”--(A grim
smile of recognition wandered over his features as he spoke).--“Fear
nothing,” he added, observing the agony and terror of his involuntary
hearers--“What have you to fear?” he continued, while a flash of
derisive malignity once more lit up the sockets of his dead eyes--“You,
Senhor, are armed with your beads--and you, Melmoth, are fortified by
that vain and desperate inquisitiveness, which might, at a former
period, have made you my victim,”--(and his features underwent a short
but horrible convulsion)--“but now makes you only my mockery. * * * * *

“Have you aught to quench my thirst?” he added, seating himself. The
senses of Monçada and his companion reeled in delirious terror, and the
former, in a kind of wild confidence, filled a glass of water, and
offered it to the Wanderer with a hand as steady, but somewhat colder,
as he would have presented it to one who sat beside him in human
companionship. The Wanderer raised it to his lips, and tasted a few
drops, then replacing it on the table, said with a laugh, wild indeed,
but no longer ferocious--“Have you seen,” said he to Monçada and
Melmoth, who gazed with dim and troubled sight on this vision, and wist
not what to think--“Have you seen the fate of Don Juan, not as he is
pantomimed on your paltry stage, but as he is represented in the real
horrors of his destiny by the Spanish writer(17)? There the spectre
returns the hospitality of his inviter, and summons him in turn to a
feast.--The banquet-hall is a church--he arrives--it is illuminated with
a mysterious light--invisible hands hold lamps fed by no earthly
substance, to light the apostate to his doom!--He enters the church, and
is greeted by a numerous company--the spirits of those whom he has
wronged and murdered, uprisen from their charnel, and swathed in
shrouds, stand there to welcome him!--As he passes among them, they call
on him in hollow sounds to pledge them in goblets of blood which they
present to him--and beneath the altar, by which stands the spirit of him
whom the parricide has murdered, the gulph of perdition is yawning to
receive him!---- Through such a band I must soon prepare to
pass!--Isidora! thy form will be the last I must encounter--and--the
most terrible! Now for the last drop I must taste of earth’s
produce--the last that shall wet my mortal lips!” He slowly finished the
draught of water. Neither of his companions had the power to speak. He
sat down in a posture of heavy musing, and neither ventured to interrupt
him.