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Chapter 30

           Ihadlatterlygrownaheavysleeper,andIsupposeImusthaveslumberedsomehours,whenIwasawakenedsuddenlyasthoughbyanimperativetouchfromsomeunseenhand.Istartedupinmybed—thenight-lampwasburningdimly,andbyitsglimmerIsawthatSibylwasnolongeratmyside.Myheartgaveoneboundagainstmyribsandthenalmoststoodstill—asenseofsomethingunexpectedandcalamitouschilledmyblood.Ipushedasidetheembroideredsilkenhangingsofthebedandpeeredintotheroom—itwasempty.ThenIrosehastily,putonmyclothesandwenttothedoor—itwascarefullyshut,butnotlockedasithadbeenwhenweretiredforthenight.Iopeneditwithouttheleastnoise,andlookedoutintothelongpassage—noonethere!Immediatelyoppositethebedroomdoortherewasawindingoakstaircaseleadingdowntoabroadcorridor,whichinformertimeshadbeenusedasamusic-roomorpicture-gallery—anancientorgan,stillsweetoftone,occupiedoneendofitwithdullgoldenpipestoweringuptothecarvedandembossedceiling—theotherendwaslitbyalargeorielwindowlikethatofachurch,filledwithrareoldstainedglass,representinginvariousnichesthelivesofthesaints,thecentresubjectbeingthemartyrdomofStStephen.

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