The place was not empty. In a corner of the hall, hitherto sunk in
darkness, crouched a shadowy form. It was enveloped in a dark garment,
and huddled up into an indefinable and unfamiliar shape. Nothing
appeared on it, as a denoting sign of humanity, but one pale hand,
holding the black drapery together, and relieved against it in almost
ghastly contrast under the cold light of the moon.
Vague remembrances of the awful superstitions of his nation's ancient
worship, hurried over the memory of the young Goth, at the first moment
of his discovery of the ghost-like occupant of the hall. As he stood in
fixed attention before the motionless figure, it soon began to be
endowed with the same strange influence over his will, that the lonely
house had already exerted. He advanced slowly towards the crouching
form.
It never stirred at the noise of his approach. The pale hand still held
the mantle over the compressed figure, with the same rigid immobility of
grasp. Brave as he was, Hermanric shuddered as he bent down and touched
the bloodless, icy fingers.
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