‘No,’ said the weird old man, ‘there is no one there.’ Mr. Goodchild looked at Idle, but Idle lay with his head enwreathed in smoke. ‘No one there?’ said Goodchild. ‘There is no one at your grave, I assure you,’ said the old man. He had come in and shut the door, and he now sat down. He did not bend himself to sit, as other people do, but seemed to sink bolt upright, as if in water, until the chair stopped him. ‘My friend, Mr. Idle,’ said Goodchild, extremely anxious to introduce a third person into the conversation. ‘I am,’ said the old man, without looking at him, ‘at Mr. Idle’s service.’ ‘If you are an old inhabitant of this place,’ Francis Goodchild resumed. ‘Yes.’ ‘Perhaps you can decide a point my friend and I were in doubt upon, this morning. They hang condemned criminals at the Castle, I believe?’ ‘_I_ believe so,’ said the old man. ‘Are their faces turned towards that noble prospect?’ ‘Your face is turned,’ replied the old man, ‘to the Castle wall. When you are tied up, you see its stones expanding and contracting violently, and a similar expansion and contraction seem to take place in your own head and breast. Then, there is a rush of fire and an earthquake, and the Castle springs into the air, and you tumble down a precipice.’ His cravat appeared to trouble him. He put his hand to his throat, and moved his neck from side to side. He was an old man of a swollen character of face, and his nose was immoveably hitched up on one side, as if by a little hook inserted in that nostril. Mr. Goodchild felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and began to think the night was hot, and not cold. ‘A strong description, sir,’ he observed. ‘A strong sensation,’ the old man rejoined. Again, Mr. Goodchild looked to Mr. Thomas Idle; but Thomas lay on his back with his face attentively turned towards the One old man, and made no sign. At this time Mr. Goodchild believed that he saw threads of fire stretch from the old man’s eyes to his own, and there attach themselves. (Mr. Goodchild writes the present account of his experience, and, with the utmost solemnity, protests that he had the strongest sensation upon him of being forced to look at the old man along those two fiery films, from that moment.) ‘I must tell it to you,’ said the old man, with a ghastly and a stony stare. ‘What?’ asked Francis Goodchild. ‘You know where it took place. Yonder!’ Whether he pointed to the room above, or to the room below, or to any room in that old house, or to a room in some other old house in that old town, Mr. Goodchild was not, nor is, nor ever can be, sure. He was confused by the circumstance that the right forefinger of the One old man seemed to dip itself in one of the threads of fire, light itself, and make a fiery start in the air, as it pointed somewhere. Having pointed somewhere, it went out. ‘You know she was a Bride,’ said the old man. ‘I know they still send up Bride-cake,’ Mr. Goodchild faltered. ‘This is a very oppressive air.’