'Hush!'was all that Tom Wealdon said, looking at the gaunt spectre with less of fear than inquisitiveness. 'What are you doing here, Sir?' demanded Lake, in his most unpleasant tones. 'Prophesying,' answered the phantom. 'You had better write your prophecies in your room, Sir--had not you?--and give them to the Archbishop of Canterbury to proclaim, when they are finished; we are busy here just now, and don't require revelations, if you please.' The old man lifted up his long lean finger, and turned on him with a smile which I hate even to remember. 'Let him alone,' whispered the Town Clerk, in a significant whisper, 'don't cross him, and he'll not stay long.' '_You_'re here, a scribe,' murmured Uncle Lorne, looking upon Tom Wealdon. 'Aye, Sir, a scribe and a Pharisee, a Sadducee and a publican, and a priest, and a Levite,' said the functionary, with a wink at Lake. 'Thomas Wealdon, Sir; happy to see you, Sir, so well and strong, and likely to enlighten the religious world for many a day to come. It's a long time, Sir, since I had the honour of seeing you; and I'm always, of course, at your command.' 'Pshaw!' said Lake, angrily. The Town Clerk pressed his arm with a significant side nod and a wink, which seemed to say, 'I understand him; can't you let me manage him?' The old man did not seem to hear what they said; but his tall figure rose up, and he extended the fingers of his left hand close to the candle for a few seconds, and then held them up to his eyes, gazing on his finger-tips, with a horrified sort of scrutiny, as if he saw signs and portents gathered there, like Thomas Aquinas' angels at the needles' points, and then the same cadaverous grin broke out over his features. 'Mark Wylder is in an evil plight,' said he. 'Is he?' said Lake, with a sly scoff, though he seemed to me a good deal scared. 'We hear no complaints, however, and fancy he must be tolerably comfortable notwithstanding.' 'You know where he is,' said Uncle Lorne. 'Aye, in Italy; everyone knows that,' answered Lake. 'In Italy,' said the old man, reflectively, as if trying to gather up his ideas, 'Italy. Oh! yes, Vallombrosa--aye, Italy, I know it well.' 'So do we, Sir; thank you for the information,' said Lake, who nevertheless appeared strangely uneasy. 'He has had a great tour to make. It is nearly accomplished now; when it is done, he will be like me, _humano major_. He has seen the places which you are yet to see.' 'Nothing I should like better; particularly Italy,' said Lake. 'Yes,' said Uncle Lorne, lifting up slowly a different finger at each name in his catalogue. 'First, Lucus Mortis; then Terra Tenebrosa; next, Tartarus; after that, Terra Oblivionis; then Herebus; then Barathrum; then Gehenna, and then Stagium Ignis.' 'Of course,' acquiesced Lake, with an ugly sneer, and a mock bow. 'And to think that all the white citizens were once men and women!' murmured Uncle Lorne, with a scowl. 'Quite so,' whispered Lake.