The last to enter the breakfast room was our fresh arrival, Mr. Vandyke
McGuilp. He presented a very different appearance to any of the rest. He
was pale and haggard, and his hair hung disordered over his eyes. "I'm afraid you have not slept well, Mr. McGuilp," said Mr. Oldstone. "What is the matter? It surely can't be the punch, for you drank less
than any of us last night. Why, I don't believe you drank more than a
couple of glasses the whole time; but perhaps you are not accustomed to
these orgies, and a little upsets you. Look at us--seasoned old casks
all of us--we are as jolly as ever. As for myself, I never felt better
in all my life." "Oh, it is not that," replied our artist; "but I feel somehow I passed
an indifferent night." Dr. Bleedem felt the pulse and looked at the tongue of the new guest,
and pronounced him a little feverish, but said that it would soon pass
over. "My blessed eyes!" cried the captain, "if the gentleman doesn't look as
scared as I felt when the shark was at my heels last night. What say you
mine host?" "Well, Captain," said the landlord, "if I might venture a remark, the
gentleman looks as if he had had a visit from the _headless lady_." McGuilp started. "Why do you start, sir?" inquired Mr. Blackdeed, who alone had noticed
the action, his eye being ever open to anything of a dramatic effect. "A little nervousness, that is all," replied the artist. "I feel far
from well this morning." "I assure you, your action was quite dramatic," said the tragedian. "Oblige me by repeating it. Thank you; I'll practise it before the glass
this morning. It will just do for my tragedy, when the wicked baron, who
is in the act of carrying off a lady by force, is suddenly checked in
his career by the appearance of the spirit of her brother, whom he has
murdered." "Ha! What's that all about?" cried Oldstone, who had pricked up his ears
at something resembling a story, while the rest were gossiping on
indifferent matters. "You must act us a scene out of that tragedy,
Blackdeed; remember, we had no story from you last night." "Breakfast is ready, gentlemen," said the landlord. The guests flocked round the table and commenced their repast. "By the by, landlord," said McGuilp, as that worthy was about to quit
the room, "you give your inn a curious name. Is there any origin to it?" "Well, sir," replied the landlord, "it was my grandfather, or great
grandfather, who gave it that name--I'm not sure which." "But--but, is there no origin to it?--no legend connected with----"

"Oh, as to that, your honour," said the landlord, "folks used to say
that this house was haunted by a lady without a head; but that's a long
time ago. I don't exactly recollect the particulars of the story, but I
have heard my father say, when I was a youngster, that he had seen her;
but it's five and thirty years come Michaelmas that this inn has been in
my hands, and I never see anything of the sort, sir. No, sir; depend
upon it, she don't 'walk' now, sir. Even in my father's time her visits
used to be rare, though my grandfather used to tell me lots of stories
about her when I was a child." "Do you remember any of those stories?" "Not now, sir. I only remember hearing say that the lady was a nun; but
for what offence she was beheaded I can't exactly call to mind now." "Perhaps I might be able to refresh your memory," said the artist. "What
would you say if I really had had a visit from the headless lady last
night?" "You, sir!" exclaimed the landlord in great astonishment. "You don't
mean to say that you really _did see_----"

"The headless lady. Yes, I do; I mean to say that I had a visit from her
last night." The landlord opened his eyes and mouth with a look of awe. The guests
remained as if petrified. The captain's red face grew a shade less so. Mr. Parnassus became livid. The tragedian's hair stood on end. Mr.
Oldstone looked a few years older, while the countenances of the whole
company betrayed various grades of wonder and consternation. "Ahem!" coughed the chairman of the previous evening, at length breaking
silence. "Perhaps you would not mind telling us about your experiences
of last night, Mr. McGuilp? I am sure we are all most curious to hear
something about this mysterious lady. I have never met anyone yet who
could say that they had seen her, though I have heard over and over
again that she used to 'walk.'" Thus entreated, our artist proceeded as follows:

Well, then, after I left you, gentlemen, last night, before I retired to
rest, in looking round my apartment, I was much struck with an old
portrait, painted in a very early style, of a lady in a nun's dress. In
spite of the hard style of the period, there was something in the
face--a sort of resigned melancholy--that interested me exceedingly. Still it was little more than a passing glance that I bestowed on the
picture, for I felt very sleepy, and more inclined for bed than for
criticising works of art. I accordingly undressed as quickly as I could,
blew out the light, and in two minutes was fast asleep. I could not have enjoyed more than a quarter-of-an-hour's repose, when I
was suddenly awakened by what felt like a cold hand pressed upon my
forehead. I started up, and tried to call out, but could not raise my
voice above a whisper. I looked in the direction in which I expected to
find the person who had awakened me, but could see nothing. All was pitch dark around me, but I heard, or thought I heard, a deep
sigh as I strained my ears to catch some sound of the intruder. "Who's there?" I called out, in a husky whisper; but I received no
reply. Beginning to be alarmed, fancying that some dishonest person had entered
my chamber to rob me, or else that it was someone of the household
given to walking in their sleep, I sat up in bed and peered into the
darkness. As I listened I distinctly heard a low moan of such piteous anguish that
it made my flesh creep and my hair to stand up. "Who could it be?" I asked myself. "Perhaps some person of unsound mind
in the family whose habit it was to walk at night, and lurk about the
bed-chambers." The thought was anything but a pleasant one. Who knows what form this
madness might take? Mad people are not to be trusted. I trembled to
think what the intent of my visitor might be. Was he armed? I tried to
reach out my hand for my tinder-box, but such a supernatural terror
pervaded my whole frame, that my limbs were paralysed, and I remained
sitting up in bed, as if rooted to the spot, without power to move a
finger. At length, not being able to bear this suspense any longer, I bethought
me of striking terror into my visitant, and though carrying no arms
about me, my object was to alarm the stranger into speaking, so I called
out in husky tones as loud as my voice would permit me, "Speak, or I
fire!" But no answer was given. What was to be done? I could not carry my
threat into execution, having no weapon.