all was still: the soughing of the wind
among the Scotch firs below the rampart-
wall was the only thing I heard. But, feeling
restless, I jumped out of bed, went to the
window and opened it. There was no
moon, but it was a light night. I could
distinguish the ivy on the wall beneath; the
door in the angle of the turret opposite,
and the dusky forms of the owls that flew
past the window. Almost immediately beneath
it was a curious old well said to be of
wonderful depth, but long since unused. If
one dropped a stone in there an interval
which seemed like half a minute elapsed
before a faint splash told that it had reached
the bottom.

I had been at the window a few minutes
when the door in the turret opposite
opened, with a slight grating sound which
attracted my attention. A figure glided
forth, and ran swiftly towards the well. I
distinguished that it was a woman by the
long drapery, and as she came under the
window I could just make out that she
carried some sort of vessel in her hand.
Whatever it was she threw it in, and waited,
leaning over the side, until she caught the
distant thud of the object as it met the water.
Then she returned rather more leisurely
than she had come, the door was shut, and,
though I waited at the window a full hour,
I saw and heard no more.

I do not know that at any other place,
at any other time, this circumstance would
have aroused my curiosity. As it was, I
could not get to sleep again for thinking of
it, and speculating what could have been
the motive that induced any female of the
establishment to rise in the dead of night
in order to cast something into the well.

I had to be stirring very early, and I was
at my solitary breakfast when Lord Dunblane
entered. He looked ghastly, so much
so, that I could not help asking if he was
ill. He turned fiercely round upon me,
demanding why I asked.

"Because you look as if you had not
slept," I said.

"And you? Pray how did you sleep?"
he inquired, knitting his brows. "You were
not disturbed? You had no nightmare
after Lady Dunblane's conversation last
night?"

I had resolved to say nothing of what I
had seen, and replied that I had rested
pretty well. I was then proceeding to express
my thanks to him for his hospitality,
when he interrupted me. "If you wish to
show yourself a friend, say as little as possible
about your visit here to any one. I am
going abroad at once. I have made up my
mind that Lady Dunblane can live here no
longer. You have heard enough to know
how she hates the place—and it disagrees
with her, moreover. She has had several
epileptic attacks—a severe one this very
night; it is evident that the climate does not
suit her, and I am recommended to take her
to Italy. My lady and I can never agree
here. She does all she can to goad me to
madness—and perhaps she has succeeded:
who can say? People will gossip, Carthews,
when we are gone. Prove yourself a friend,
and say nothing about our quarrels while
you have been here."

I was a good deal surprised at the tenor
of this speech, but thought it reasonable
upon the whole. There was something in
his eye, nevertheless, which disquieted me.
Coupling it with Pilson's words, two days
previously, and with my own observations,
I could not avoid the conviction that the
fate to which he himself had just now alluded
was imminent. It might be warded
off, perhaps, by change of scene, and the
removal of the causes of irritation; but it
was impossible to look at him steadily,
and to doubt that incipient insanity was
there. I begged him to act upon his
determination of going abroad without loss
of time; and then, shaking his hand, I
stepped into the chaise, and drove off.

Well, I returned to Aberdeen; and some
days after this Pilson called on me. I
asked what news he brought of Lord and
Lady Dunblane.

"They are gone abroad. I suppose it is
the best thing he could do. Her ladyship
had a succession of such severe fits that
she was unable to leave her room, or to see
any one but her maid after you left. I did
see her once at the window, and her look
quite alarmed me. His lordship was much
calmer, but he scarcely spoke. His wife's
sudden prostration, after all their violent
bickerings, affected him a good deal. He
is in a bad way, I think, Carthews. I
mean that I am very much afraid"—and he
pointed significantly to his head.

I told him that I fully shared his apprehensions,
and then asked him more particularly
to describe the change in Lady
Dunblane's appearance.

"The morning I left I was walking
round the rampart when I heard one of the
windows rattle. I looked up, and there
was Lady Dunblane, her head pressed
against the panes, and with such a terrible
expression of agony in her face as I shall
never forget. She kept opening her