"It is some door, moving on its rusty hinges," he said, after listening for a moment. "The wind is blowing it backwards and forwards;" and taking up the chair again, he bore it into the corridor, while Iola went before with the light, gazing timidly around. Nothing occurred to disturb them however; and at length, though not without difficulty, Chartley got the cumbrous seat down the narrow stairs. The Arab was now standing in the midst of the hall, gazing towards the door, with his naked scimitar in his hand. "What is the matter, son of Ayoub?" asked Chartley. "What have you heard?" "Feet, and a groan," answered the Arab, with his dark eyes glaring in the fire light. "Pooh, 'tis some rusty hinge," said Chartley, "and the feet of rats or martins, driven to take shelter here by this long continued wintry weather.--Seat yourself here, sweet Iola. Put your feet to the fire, and dream of pleasant things, while I go up again and bring the stool." Thus saying, he took the lamp from her hand, and re-ascended. He was not long absent; but Iola listened anxiously for his returning step. She felt safe while he was near her, but fearful the moment he was away. Chartley was soon at her side again, and placing the stool close to her feet, he seated himself thereon, and, leaning upon the arm of her chair, gazed up into her face with a gay smile. "Now this is comfortable," he said. "We may pass the remaining hours of night cheerfully enough here; and if you doze, sweet Iola, your little head will but fall upon Chartley's shoulder, where it may rest as securely, though not so softly, as on your own pillow in the abbey. There, seat yourself there, Ibn Ayoub, in the nook of the chimney, or your southern blood will be frozen in this cold northern night. Think no more of groans and footfalls. These are all tricks of the imagination--It is wonderful," he continued, turning to Iola, "what wild fancies superstition will beget, ay, and sad as well as wonderful, when one thinks of the horrible cruelties which reasonable men will commit upon the strength of stories that a child should be whipped for believing. When I was in Flanders a few years ago, a poor woman was burned alive, in the public market place; and what do you think was the crime of which she was accused?" "Nay, I know not," answered Iola; "but, it should be a terrible crime indeed to draw down so terrible a punishment."