One lovely evening in August, I had taken my usual position, and the stillness of the hour, the serenity of the air, the surrounding scenery, teeming with the choicest blessings of nature’s store and gilded by the last rays of the setting sun, operated like enchantment on my mind; while the solemnity of the lone churchyard, spread with the turf-raised tenements of death, wrought upon my disordered imagination, and filled me with a superstitious awe. The darkening shades of twilight fell heavier on the landscape, and I gazed around with indescribable sensations, fearing my eyes might rest on some unearthly form, yet desperately wishing to know the secrets of the clay-cold prison-house. At this moment, as the full round moon shed her pale lustre on the monumental stones, bleached by many a winter’s storm,--at this very moment, my sight fell upon a strange mysterious figure, crouched near a new-made grave. Every fibre of my heart was racked to the extreme, every nerve was strung with maddening resolve. I rushed toward the spot; but what was my horror, what were the sickening sensations of my soul, when the figure raised his pale face, and as the moon-beams fell upon it, I beheld the well-remembered countenance of one who had shared the pastimes of my boyhood, who had been my fellow-prisoner at Verdun, whose untimely death I had deplored, and whose mortal remains I had myself seen consigned to the silent grave. It spoke; the voice seemed to be the same, though mournful and sepulchral, and every faculty of my mind seemed to be suspended. Again it spoke, and recognised me,--changed as I was,--called me by name, and rising from the earth, stretched forth its hand to welcome me. I shrunk back for an instant, my brain was suddenly as if on fire, and then again was chilled to icy coldness; life seemed to tremble on the verge of eternity. I sprang forward, grasped the extended hand, and fell senseless to the earth. On again recovering, the spectre was gone, but the recollection flashed upon my mind. I hastened towards my cottage, and entered it a maniac. Months passed away in this unhappy state;--sometimes the attendants were animated by the faint glimmerings of hope, at others they were prepared to resign me to the angel of death. However, contrary to every expectation, I slowly recovered my reason and my health, when after a careful explanation, the fancied spectre again visited me, and was received as my old, my intimate friend; in short, we had been deceived respecting his death and burial through the infamous intrigues of the commandant, Wirrion, and from his own lips I heard the following account:--