That night, though the room he was given was quite bright and cheerful, and very different from the one he had occupied the night before, his mind was so full of grim apprehension that he found it quite impossible to sleep. He kept thinking of the vision he had seen--that lovely, fairy face of the girl with the golden hair, her adorable eyes, her heavenly, albeit very human mouth; she was so perfect, so angelic, so full of delicious sympathy and pity; so unlike any earthly woman he had ever met; and then that other face--those intensely evil, pale green eyes, that sinister mocking mouth, that dreadfully disordered mass of matted, tow-coloured hair. It was too hellish--too inconceivably foul and baneful to dare think about, and seized with a fit of shuddering, he thrust his head under the bedclothes, lest he should see it again appearing before him. What, he wondered, did they portend? Not some horrible happening to Dick. He had always understood that the one who neither sees nor hears the Banshee during its manifestations is the one that is doomed to die. And yet Dick was assuredly as safe in that inn as he was here--here, surrounded on all sides by his enemies. Once or twice he fancied he heard his name called, and so realistic was it, that, forgetful of his dread of seeing something satanic in the room, he at last sat up in bed and listened. All was still, however; there were no sounds at all; none whatever, saving the gentle whispering of the wind, as it swept softly past the window, and the far-away hooting of a night bird. Then he lay down again, and once more there seemed to come to him from somewhere very close at hand a voice that articulated very clearly and plaintively his name--Ralph, Ralph, Ralph!--three times in quick succession, and then ceased. Nor did he hear it again. Tired and unrested, he got up early and, paying his bill, set off with long, rapid strides in the direction of the wayside inn. There was an air of delightful peace and tranquillity about the place when he arrived. All the sunbeams seemed to have congregated in just that one spot, and to have converted the walls and window-panes of the little old-fashioned building into sheets of burnished gold. Birds twittered merrily on the tree-tops and under the eaves of the roof, and the most delicious smell of honeysuckle and roses permeated the whole atmosphere. Ralph was enchanted, and all his grim forebodings of the night before were instantly dissipated. The abode was truly named "The Travellers' Rest"; it might even have been styled "The Travellers' Paradise," for all seemed so calm and serene--so truly heavenly. He rapped at the door, and, after some moments, rapped again. He then heard footsteps, which somehow seemed strangely familiar, cautiously come along the stone passage and pause at the other side of the door, as if their owner were in doubt whether to open it or not.