Meanwhile the Outcast threading the dark passages with hurried steps,
soon reached the corridor. Through its gloom he hastened, and descending
the stairway presently stood in the darkness of the lower chamber,
his hands extended as he searched anxiously for the door, which communicated
with Betsy's cabin. The door was found; the bolt drawn;
and there burst into the presence of the astonished widow, an Apparition
that might have frightened many a bolder heart than hers.

She was on her knees in the closet, praying in strong German and with
copious tears for the safety of the poor Girl, who, like a Nun in her Cloister,
was enshrined in the darkness of the Haunted House. She had procured
another candle; it stood upon her table, and flung a strong light over the
luxuriant form, which—kneeling—bloomed securely within the capacious
closet. The bust of the widow rose and fell like a big wave; her warm
lips gave utterance to a melancholy litany of sobs, moans and prayers.

“Te oldt fyste!” she cried with a decided accent—“To go into tat
house witout leave or license! And fot is to becom of me? Fot, I say?
[She did not say what on this occasion, but with emphasis, Fot!] Te
tefil as pays me for takin' care of te girl, will carry me off in a puff o'

[figure description] Page 436.[end figure description]

smoke, an' brimstone—he will—I knows he will. I nefer liked his eyes-
nefer, nefer!”

At this moment the bolt was drawn, and the Apparition of the old outcast,
with tall form and haggard face, long hair and beard as white as
snow, gloomed upon the widow's eyes. He did not seem to wait for
ceremony for leaping over the widow's shoulder, even as she knelt
in her sorrow, he plunged through the closet into her room, and began to
caper over the floor, his white hair waving like a banner, as he whirled
round and round.

“Lordt!” cried Betsy—“Fot next!”

The old man uttered bursts of wild laughter as he performed this lively
exercise, exclaiming between every burst—“Don't mind me Betsy. I'm
only crazy, that's all. Have n't got as much sense as would make a decent
Idiot of myself. You see I had to run from the girl, or I'd a-gone
stark mad.”

Presently he brought his dance abruptly to a close; he flung himself
into a chair, and the widow started to her feet, not only astonished but
completely overwhelmed in all her modest instincts.

“Untressin' hisself in my room!” she gasped—“Tis is too much!
Fot next!”

It was no dream, but a painful truth. The old man was engaged in
divesting himself of his clothing with the rapidity of a tailor's apprentice.

He did not take off his miserable shoes, but simply tore them from his
feet. Nor did he cut the strings which bound his leggings, but rent away,
and ripped away, until strings and leggings lay on the floor beside the
worn-out shoes. Next, his girdle fell; and then the tattered garment,
which reached from his broad shoulders to his knees, was lifted over his
head, and dashed at Betsy's feet.

“O!” gasped the widow, taking one interminable breath as her eyes
dilated in her blushing face.

Do not imagine for a moment that the aged gentleman had transformed
himself into one of those elegant representations of Ancient Statuary,—
known in our modern days as Artistes,—qualified with the big word
Model—and renowned at once for scantiness of drapery and decency.
Do not fancy that he had turned himself into Apollo bending the Bow;
or Ajax defying the lightning; or even that most renowned of all-classic
studies, the African alarmed at the sound of thunder.

No! He had thrown aside his shoes and leggings, but in their place
appeared a pair of stalwart limbs, encased in boots of black leather, and
hose of red velvet; the ragged garment he had flung at Betsy's feet, but
where it had dangled its rags, the widow now beheld a coat of rich velvet,
green embroidered with gold, clothing a broad and muscular chest, and
gathered to a manly waist, by a glittering girdle, adorned with a dagger
with golden hilt, and a pair of pistols mounted in silver.

[figure description] Page 437.[end figure description]

The long flowing beard, the waving hair white as snow, alone prevented
the widow from deciding that this sudden transformation had converted a
miserable outcast into as handsome a cavalier, as ever eyes of woman
looked upon.

“Ah!” ejaculated the widow, drawing another breath in a paroxysm of
delight and wonder—“Tat is nice!”

The outcast started to his feet, displaying a magnificent form, almost
of giant stature, clad in a dress which showed to advantage its manly proportions,
and at the same time gave it something of a military air. His
hair and beard so white and long, presented a singular contrast to his
youthful form and elegant attire.

“Betsy, how do I look now?” he said, lifting at once his old felt hat,
his hair and beard from his head, as you would raise your hat in the
course of a polite bow. “Do you know me, girl?”

There was no sign of withered age upon the face, which now caught
the rays of the light. A hardy, sunburnt face, with a thick brown beard
about the firm chin and muscular throat; a face boldly featured, lighted
by clear blue eyes, and with short and copious curls of chesnut hair, clustering
around a frank open forehead, which was darkened only by one
deep wrinkle and a single scar.

“Gott pless us!” cried the widow, with her eyes raining tears—“Its
the teadt come back to life—it's Gilbert Morgan, or his ghost!”

“Yes, Gilbert Morgan is no longer afraid of his own name, no longer
in the power of the Fiend!” As he spoke he rose to his full stature, and
his form was knit in every muscle, his eyes—sunken beneath the compressed
brows—lighted by all the resolution of his iron will.

“From this hour I defy him, and cast off his chains. If he comes to
me in human shape, why a pistol or a knife will do his work forever.
But if he is, indeed, a devil in a half-human body, why, Madeline shall
pray to God for me. Her soul is pure—her prayer will be heard.”

“What you mean, Gilbert?” faltered Betsy.

He turned to her, and the cloud passed from his face; his eyes fairly
danced with joy.

“Come, Betsy, we will go to Madeline! She will know me now, and
d'ye hear, Betsy? There 'll be a cottage soon, under the shadow of a
big rock, by the Wissahikon shore, a cottage for Gilbert and his wife.
And you shall come and live with us, Betsy—no more spasms, ha, ha!
Forgive me. Betsy, for I've led a wild life, but now it is over. Come—
softly—let us steal gently up the stairs, and ask her where the old man
has gone!”

While he spoke, his eye dancing, his chest heaving in broad and deep
respirations, every tone of his voice tremulous with an intense—almost
maniac—joy, he led the way through the closet into the lower room of
the Haunted House. Betsy followed him with hands upraised, and

[figure description] Page 438.[end figure description]

eyes dilating, while her mouth assumed once more the shape of a
capital O!

“D'ye see that Harp carved on the middle stone of the fire place?
There's money under that stone, Betsy, money buried there years ago by
a rich merchant, who made his millions in the slave trade, and died of the
fear of poverty. Come—never mind it now; we'll see Madeline first,
and talk of the money afterwards.”

Up the stairs and through the corridor, holding the light above his head,
while Betsy follows at his heels, rubbing her eyes in order to assure herself
that it is no dream. They reach the entrance of the place of prayer
where the white altar stands alone in the gloom, and the Image of the
Crucified smiles over the Holy Book.

“Wait here, Betsy; I will go alone. Take the light and wait; in a
moment I will call you. O! if you only knew how my heart went leapin'
to my throat, as she put her arms about my neck, and yet, I was
afraid to tell her my name.”

With these words he left the good widow standing at the end of the
corridor, and passing through the silent Oratory, soon stood on the threshold
of Madeline's chamber.

“Madeline!” he called—in the familiar voice of the olden time—but
there was no answer. His hand upon the curtains, which protected the
entrance of her chamber, his form veiled in their shadows, he called again:
“Madeline! Madeline! It is I—Gilbert—come back to life again!”

He listened, while the blood swept like molten fire in every vein; he
listened, but there was no reply.

He parted the curtains and entered her chamber, reaching forth his arms
to clasp her to his heart.

The light still glimmered in the mirror, shedding a dim ray over the
luxurious furniture and white-curtained bed, but—Madeline was not
there.

Gilbert paused in the centre of the room, looking from side to side, with
a vague and bewildered stare.

“She is gone!” he cried, with an accent of inexpressible despair. “The
Fiend has foiled me once again! But no—she is concealed somewhere in
this accursed mansion, I will search it from the garret to the cellar. I
will—”

He parted the curtains of the bed; it bore the impress of Madeline's
form, but she was gone.

“I will defy the fiend, and walk abroad once more among livin' men
like a livin' man. Ah! What's this?”

A white object glared from the sombre carpet at his feet. It was a
letter, the seal had the appearance of having been but lately broken; it
bore no superscription, but a single word at once rivetted Gilbert's
attention.

[figure description] Page 439.[end figure description]

“`To Madeline!”' he muttered as he held it to the light, and then
sinking in a chair, he read the following lines:

“To Madeline!

“Do not tremble, fair girl, when you behold the name, written beneath
these lines! It is, I—it is Reginald,—who sought your love, under a
cowardly disguise, and sought to lure you to dishonor, on the fatal New
Year's morning of 1775. And Reginald, repenting of the crime, now
seeks to make atonement, and thus deserves your forgiveness.

Forgive me Madeline. The dream of passion, has passed away. I no
longer look upon you with the gaze of an unholy love. You are to me,
as something set apart from the crimes and woes of this mortal life—you
are, to me, as pure, as distant, as unapproachable, as the evening star,
which trembles serenely on the sunset horizon—as a Saint enthroned in
Heaven, to whom we may present our prayers, but whose sanctity repels
the idea of earthly passion.

“I seek to atone for the past. Will you listen, Madeline,—can you forgive?
Come to Wissahikon, Madeline; my servant who bears this note,
will lead you to the appointed place, where your hand will be joined with
the hand of your plighted Husband, Gilbert Morgan. This is the atonement
which I would make; Gilbert is my friend; and believe me your,—

Gilbert read this letter, examined the seal, bearing a coat of arms, with
the cipher, “R. L.” and then exclaimed in a tone, whose emphasis of despair,
no words, can depict:

“And she has been cheated by this lie—she has gone to meet this Reginald
Lyndulfe. The thrice-perjured knave! My name must serve as
a cloak for his schemes,—in my name, he will complete Madeline's dishonor.”

He rose from his seat, and stood for a moment buried in thought, his
frank, manly face, darkening slowly, with the impress of a desperate
resolve.

“`His servant'—hah! I thought I recognized the knave, when I sat
under the oak, this afternoon. But it is not yet too late to foil this wretch.
I will to Wissahikon, I will meet him there, and as for the Fiend, why a
true heart and a good purpose is worth the malice of a thousand devils at
any time!”

As he spoke, his almost giant form, presented an impressive image of
muscular power, linked with a rugged but manly beauty, His sunburnt
cheek, flushed with new life; his eyes shone with new fire; a defiant
resolve, hung on his lip; and with his neck thrown proudly back upon
his broad shoulders, his right hand laid upon the dagger's hilt, his wide

[figure description] Page 440.[end figure description]

chest swelling in the light—he looked in every respect, the brave man,
yes the Hero.

“Now for the Wissahikon!” he said and was turning away from the
light, when—His eyes grew fixed and glassy. His limbs rigid and motionless.
He stood as if suddenly transformed to stone, his features, livid
and immoveable as Death.

This change took place within the compass of a second. One instant
he was turning away with a flushed cheek and defiant lip; the next, he
was stone—his limbs stiffened—his fixed eyeballs, glaring in the mirror
with a cold glassy lustre. There was something awful, beyond the power
of words, in this inexplicable transformation.

His lips moved languidly, but every muscle of his face was stiff, frozen—
“I hear your voice—” he slowly uttered—“And I will obey.”

Was it Gilbert Morgan, the brave man, conscious of his fearless heart
and iron arm, who spoke? Or, was it Gilbert Morgan, the victim of a remorseless
soul, which had deprived him of all power over his own will,—
destroyed in fact, for the moment, his individuality—and filled his brain
with the Soul of Another?

Like a man walking in his sleep, Gilbert strode slowly from the room,
as he fixed his glassy eyes upon the darkness, and murmured languidly,—

“Master, I come! I come!

Thus he reached the corridor, where Betsy awaited, light in hand. She
spoke to him—he passed her without a word—his eyes fixed, his hands
outstretched, his gait measured and artificial.

He reached the stairway, and began to descend. Betsy filled with
wonder, darted forward light in hand, and saw his face, as she called him
by name. She saw his face, and fell fainting at the head of the stairs.

It was not a living man,—the thought flashed on her, as she saw his
face—who walked thus in silence, with fixed eyeballs, and stride measured
and artificial. It was a Corpse, placed on its feet by some infernal wizard-craft,
and sent abroad, to chill the hearts of the living, with its sad terrible
gaze.

Our history now returns to the farm-house of Peter Dorfner, and to the
room where Madeline on the last night of 1775, sank beneath the dagger
of Gilbert Morgan.

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