‘Yes; you shall have burial, as one of my dogs should,’ Reginald replied. ‘But since you are an unwelcome tenant in this ruined tower, which is part of my property, I shall give instructions to have you driven away. However, as you confess to having liked my aunt, whom I loved better than I loved my mother, I will see that you do not want. You shall be furnished with means sufficiently ample to enable you to live where your inclinations prompt, only you must quit the tower.’ ‘This is my living place, as it is to be my death place,’ exclaimed the old man. ‘And again I charge you, return here in three days, or fail at your peril.’ Reginald was exasperated. His temper was aroused now, as he thought the old man was defying him, and he strode hastily from the room, hurried down the stairs, and, flinging himself on his horse, galloped to the castle, with the intention of giving orders to eject the strange old man from the tower at once. But by the time he reached the courtyard he had changed his mind, and he could not help confessing to himself that some indefinable sense of fear restrained him. At any rate, he would let the old fellow remain where he was for a few days longer. Three days passed away, and the night came. Then Reginald remembered the man’s request; at first he had no intention of returning to the ruins. As the evening wore on, however, he felt impelled by a feeling of overmastering curiosity to pay another visit to the wizard, if wizard he was. So, without making known his intention to anyone, he armed himself with a formidable spear used in boar hunting, and, calling his faithful boarhound ‘Wanga’ to his side, he set off for the tower. The night was beautifully fine. The air was still, the sky was cloudless, the stars shone with extraordinary brilliancy. As Reginald pursued his way he looked to the west, and saw an unusually bright star, and knew, according to what the old man had told him, that it was the star of his nativity. He reached the ruins in about half an hour’s rapid walking. A weird silence seemed to pervade the place. No light was visible. There wasn’t a sign of the old man’s existence. Reginald told ‘Wanga’ to precede him up the mouldering stairs, but the great hound whined and drew back and crouched at his master’s feet, and remained unmoved even by the vigorous kick which his master gave him. So, with a muttered oath, Reginald mounted the stairs alone. He pushed open the door and peered in. The window of the chamber was screened by a curtain, on a shelf burned a small lamp, at the table sat the old man. He was dressed in a suit of black velvet embroidered with gold, while round his waist was a massive belt of silver. He wore a skull-cap on his head, in his thin white hand he grasped the ebony rod, while the index finger of the right hand was fixed on a passage in an open book that lay on the table before him.