That head, so easily recognizable by the short hair, cut _à la malcontent_, by the Spanish ruff in which it was framed as it were, by its sharp and angular, yet refined outlines, and lastly by the peculiar shape of the beard and moustache, was the head of D'Alvimar, thrown back in the rigor of death. At first Bois-Doré fought against the idea; then it took entire possession of him, became a certainty, a source of intense agitation and insurmountable terror. He had never believed that he was in any danger from ghosts. He said and he thought that, having never put any man to death from revenge or from cruelty, he was quite sure that he should never be visited by any soul in anger or distress; but he was no more disposed than the majority of sensible men of his time to deny the return of spirits to earth, or the reality of the apparitions which so many persons entirely worthy of confidence described in detail. "This D'Alvimar is surely dead," he thought; "I touched his cold limbs; I saw his body, already stiff in death, taken from his horse's back. He has been reposing underground for several weeks, and yet I see him here before me, I who have always refused to see anything supernatural where others saw terrible phantoms! Was this man, contrary to all appearances, innocent of the crime of which I accused him and for which I punished him? Is this a rebuke of my conscience? Is it a vision of my brain? Is it the chilling atmosphere of this ruin stealing over me and confusing my faculties? Whatever it may be," he thought, "I have had enough of it." And, feeling the dizziness which is the precursor of a swoon, he dragged himself out to the stairway. There he recovered himself somewhat, and descended the ruinous spiral staircase with a firm step. But, when he reached the foot, instead of mustering courage to force his way into the apartments on the ground floor, he had no desire to see or hear anything further; and impelled by an unconquerable feeling of repugnance, he rushed forth into the fields, confessing his fear to himself, and ready to avow it artlessly to the first person who should question him concerning it. He found the farmer, more dead than alive, waiting for him on the bridge. It was an heroic act on the good man's part to remain there. He was incapable of saying or listening to anything whatsoever, and not until he and the marquis had returned to the farmhouse, did he venture to ask any questions. "Well, my poor dear Monsieur Sylvain," he said, "I trust you have had your fill of watching their lights, and listening to their bellowing! I thought surely I should never see you come back!" "It is certain that something out of the common course is taking place in that ruin," said the marquis, tossing off a glass of wine which the farmer's wife handed him, and which was by no means unacceptable. "I fell in with no evil spirits there---"