This man was an attached and respectable servant; and his duties, in
addition to those ordinarily imposed upon _valets_, but which Barton's
independent habits generally dispensed with, were to attend carefully
to the simple precautions by means of which his master hoped to exclude
the dreaded intrusion of the "Watcher," as the strange letter he had
at first received had designated his persecutor. And, in addition to
attending to these arrangements, which consisted merely in anticipating
the possibility of his master's being, through any unscreened window
or opened door, exposed to the dreaded influence, the valet was never
to suffer him to be for one moment alone: total solitude, even for a
minute, had become to him now almost as intolerable as the idea of going
abroad into the public ways; it was an instinctive anticipation of what
was coming. It is needless to say, that, under these mysterious and horrible
circumstances, no steps were taken toward the fulfilment of that
engagement into which he had entered. There was quite disparity enough
in point of years, and indeed of habits, between the young lady and
Captain Barton, to have precluded anything like very vehement or
romantic attachment on her part. Though grieved and anxious, therefore,
she was very far from being heart-broken; a circumstance which, for the
sentimental purposes of our tale, is much to be deplored. But truth must
be told, especially in a narrative whose chief, if not only, pretensions
to interest consist in a rigid adherence to facts, or what are so
reported to have been. Miss Montague, nevertheless, devoted much of her time to a patient but
fruitless attempt to cheer the unhappy invalid. She read for him, and
conversed with him; but it was apparent that whatever exertions he made,
the endeavour to escape from the one constant and ever-present fear that
preyed upon him was utterly and miserably unavailing. Young ladies, as all the world knows, are much given to the cultivation
of pets; and among those who shared the favour of Miss Montague was a
fine old owl, which the gardener, who caught him napping among the ivy
of a ruined stable, had dutifully presented to that young lady. The caprice which regulates such preferences was manifested in the
extravagant favour with which this grim and ill-favoured bird was at
once distinguished by his mistress; and, trifling as this whimsical
circumstance may seem, I am forced to mention it, inasmuch as it is
connected, oddly enough, with the concluding scene of the story. Barton, so far from sharing in this liking for the new favourite,
regarded it from the first with an antipathy as violent as it was
utterly unaccountable. Its very vicinity was insupportable to him. He
seemed to hate and dread it with a vehemence absolutely laughable, and
to those who have never witnessed the exhibition of antipathies of
this kind, his dread would seem all but incredible. With these few words of preliminary explanation, I shall proceed to
state the particulars of the last scene in this strange series of
incidents. It was almost two o'clock one winter's night, and Barton
was, as usual at that hour, in his bed; the servant we have mentioned
occupied a smaller bed in the same room, and a candle was burning. The
man was on a sudden aroused by his master, who said,--

"I can't get it out of my head that that accursed bird has escaped
somehow, and is lurking in some corner of the room. I have been dreaming
of him. Get up, Smith, and look about; search for him. Such hateful
dreams!" The servant rose, and examined the chamber, and while engaged in so
doing, he heard the well-known sound, more like a long-drawn gasp than a
hiss, with which these birds from their secret haunts affright the quiet
of the night. This ghostly indication of its proximity, for the sound
proceeded from the passage upon which Barton's chamber-door opened,
determined the search of the servant, who, opening the door, proceeded a
step or two forward for the purpose of driving the bird away. He had,
however, hardly entered the lobby, when the door behind him slowly swung
to under the impulse, as it seemed, of some gentle current of air; but
as immediately over the door there was a kind of window, intended in the
daytime to aid in lighting the passage, and through which the rays of
the candle were then issuing, the valet could see quite enough for
his purpose. As he advanced he heard his master (who, lying in a
well-curtained bed had not, as it seemed, perceived his exit from the
room) call him by name, and direct him to place the candle on the table
by his bed. The servant, who was now some way in the long passage, did
not like to raise his voice for the purpose of replying, lest he should
startle the sleeping inmates of the house, began to walk hurriedly and
softly back again, when, to his amazement, he heard a voice in the
interior of the chamber answering calmly, and the man actually saw,
through the window which over-topped the door, that the light was slowly
shifting, as if carried across the chamber in answer to his master's
call. Palsied by a feeling akin to terror, yet not unmingled with a
horrible curiosity, he stood breathless and listening at the threshold,
unable to summon resolution to push open the door and enter. Then came
a rustling of the curtains, and a sound like that of one who in a low
voice hushes a child to rest, in the midst of which he heard Barton say,
in a tone of stifled horror--"Oh, God--oh, my God!" and repeat the same
exclamation several times. Then ensued a silence, which again was broken
by the same strange soothing sound; and at last there burst forth, in
one swelling peal, a yell of agony so appalling and hideous, that, under
some impulse of ungovernable horror, the man rushed to the door, and
with his whole strength strove to force it open. Whether it was that, in
his agitation, he had himself but imperfectly turned the handle, or that
the door was really secured upon the inside, he failed to effect an
entrance; and as he tugged and pushed, yell after yell rang louder and
wilder through the chamber, accompanied all the while by the same
hushing sounds. Actually freezing with terror, and scarce knowing what
he did, the man turned and ran down the passage, wringing his hands in
the extremity of horror and irresolution. At the stair-head he was
encountered by General Montague, scared and eager, and just as they met
the fearful sounds had ceased. "What is it?--who--where is your master?" said Montague, with the
incoherence of extreme agitation. "Has anything--for God's sake, is
anything wrong?" "Lord have mercy on us, it's all over," said the man, staring wildly
towards his master's chamber. "He's dead, sir; I'm sure he's dead." Without waiting for inquiry or explanation, Montague, closely followed
by the servant, hurried to the chamber-door, turned the handle, and
pushed it open.