I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out—“Who’s there?” Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or relief—oh, no!—it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself—“It is nothing but the wind in the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor.” Yes, he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions; but he had found all in vain. All in vain, because Death, in approaching him, had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room