"Speak, honored prince, I am ready to answer you. I have nothing now to
lose."

"You showed me the face of the Armenian in a looking-glass. How was
this effected?"

"What you saw was no looking-glass. A portrait in crayons behind a
glass, representing a man in an Armenian dress, deceived you. My
quickness, the twilight, and your astonishment favored the deception.
The picture itself must have been found among the other things seized at
the inn."

"But how could you read my thoughts so accurately as to hit upon the
Armenian?"

"This was not difficult, your highness. You must frequently have
mentioned your adventure with the Armenian at table in the presence of
your domestics. One of my accomplices accidentally got acquainted with
one of your domestics in the Giudecca, and learned from him gradually as
much as I wished to know."

"Where is the man?" asked the prince; "I have missed him, and doubtless
you know of his desertion."

"I swear to your honor, sir, that I know not a syllable about it. I
have never seen him myself, nor had any other concern with him than the
one before mentioned."

"Proceed with your story," said the prince.

"By this means, also, I received the first information of your residence
and of your adventures at Venice; and I resolved immediately to profit
by them. You see, prince, I am sincere. I was apprised of your
intended excursion on the Brenta. I prepared for it, and a key that
dropped by chance from your pocket afforded me the first opportunity of
trying my art upon you."

"How! Have I been mistaken? The adventure of the key was then a trick
of yours, and not of the Armenian? You say this key fell from my
pocket?"

"You accidentally dropped it in taking out your purse, and I seized an
opportunity, when no one noticed me, to cover it with my foot. The
person of whom you bought the lottery-ticket acted in concert with me.
He caused you to draw it from a box where there was no blank, and the
key had been in the snuff-box long before it came into your possession."

"I understand you. And the monk who stopped me in my way and addressed
me in a manner so solemn."

"Was the same who, as I hear, has been wounded in the chimney. He is
one of my accomplices, and under that disguise has rendered me many
important services."

"But what purpose was this intended to answer?"

"To render you thoughtful; to inspire you with such a train of ideas as
should be favorable to the wonders I intended afterwards to show you."

"The pantomimical dance, which ended in a manner so extraordinary, was
at least none of your contrivance?"

"I had taught the girl who represented the queen. Her performance was
the result of my instructions. I supposed your highness would be not a
little astonished to find yourself known in this place, and (I entreat
your pardon, prince) your adventure with the Armenian gave me reason to
hope that you were already disposed to reject natural interpretations,
and to attribute so marvellous an occurrence to supernatural agency."

"Indeed," exclaimed the prince, at once angry and amazed, and casting
upon me a significant look; "indeed, I did not expect this."

   [Neither did probably the greater number of my readers. The
   circumstance of the crown deposited at the feet of the prince, in a
   manner so solemn and unexpected, and the former prediction of the
   Armenian, seem so naturally and obviously to aim at the same object
   that at the first reading of these memoirs I immediately remembered
   the deceitful speech of the witches in Macbeth:--

       "Hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!
        All hail, Macbeth! that shall be king hereafter!"

   and probably the same thing has occurred to many of my readers.

   When a certain conviction has taken hold upon a man's mind in a
   solemn and extraordinary manner, it is sure to follow that all
   subsequent ideas which are in any way capable of being associated
   with this conviction should attach themselves to, and in some
   degree seem to be consequent upon it. The Sicilian, who seems to
   have had no other motive for his whole scheme than to astonish the
   prince by showing him that his rank was discovered, played, without
   being himself aware of it, the very game which most furthered the
   view of the Armenian; but however much of its interest this
   adventure will lose if I take away the higher motive which at first
   seemed to influence these actions, I must by no means infringe upon
   historical truth, but must relate the facts exactly as they
   occurred.--Note of the German Editor.]

"But," continued he, after a long silence, "how did you produce the
figure which appeared on the wall over the chimney?"

"By means of a magic lantern that was fixed in the opposite
window-shutter, in which you have undoubtedly observed an opening."

"But how did it happen that not one of us perceived the lantern?" asked
Lord Seymour.

"You remember, my lord, that on your re-entering the room it was
darkened by a thick smoke of frankincense. I likewise took the
precaution to place the boards which had been taken up from the floor
upright against the wall near the window. By these means I prevented
the shutter from immediately attracting observation. Moreover, the
lantern remained covered by a slide until you had taken your places, and
there was no further reason to apprehend that you would institute any
examination of the saloon."

"As I looked out of the window in the other pavilion," said I,
"I fancied I heard a noise like that of a person placing a ladder
against the side of the house. Was I right?"

"Exactly; it was the ladder upon which my assistants stood to direct the
magic-lantern."

"The apparition," continued the prince, "had really a superficial
likeness to my deceased friend, and what was particularly striking, his
hair, which was of a very light color, was exactly imitated. Was this
mere chance, or how did you come by such a resemblance?"

"Your highness must recollect that you had at table a snuff-box by your
plate, with an enamelled portrait of an officer in a uniform. I asked
whether you had anything about you as a memento of your friend, and as
your highness answered in the affirmative, I conjectured that it might
be the box. I had attentively examined the picture during supper, and
being very expert in drawing and not less happy in taking likenesses, I
had no difficulty in giving to my shade the superficial resemblance you
have perceived, the more so as the marquis' features are very marked."

"But the figure seemed to move?"

"It appeared so, yet it was not the figure that moved but the smoke
on which the light was reflected."

"And the man who fell down in the chimney spoke for the apparition?"

"He did."

"But he could not hear your question distinctly."

"There was no occasion for it. Your highness will recollect that I
cautioned you all very strictly not to propose any question to the
apparition yourselves. My inquiries and his answers were preconcerted
between us; and that no mistake might happen, I caused him to speak at
long intervals, which he counted by the beating of a watch."

"You ordered the innkeeper carefully to extinguish every fire in the
house with water; this was undoubtedly--"

"To save the man in the chimney from the danger of being suffocated;
because the chimneys in the house communicate with each other, and I did
not think myself very secure from your retinue."

"How did it happen," asked Lord Seymour, "that your ghost appeared
neither sooner nor later than you wished him?"

"The ghost was in the room for some time before I called him, but while
the room was lighted, the shade was too faint to be perceived. When the
formula of the conjuration was finished, I caused the cover of the box,
in which the spirit was burning, to drop down, the saloon was darkened,
and it was not till then that the figure on the wall could be distinctly
seen, although it had been reflected there a considerable time before."

"When the ghost appeared, we all felt an electric shock. How was that
managed?"

"You have discovered the machine under the altar. You have also seen
that I was standing upon a silk carpet. I directed you to form a
half-moon around me, and to take each other's hands. When the crisis
approached, I gave a sign to one of you to seize me by the hair. The
silver crucifix was the conductor, and you felt the electric shock when
I touched it with my hand."

"You ordered Count O----- and myself," continued Lord Seymour, "to hold
two naked swords crossways over your head, during the whole time of the
conjuration; for what purpose?"

"For no other than to engage your attention during the operation;
because I distrusted you two the most. You remember, that I expressly
commanded you to hold the sword one inch above my head; by confining you
exactly to this distance, I prevented you from looking where I did not
wish you. I had not then perceived my principal enemy."

"I own," cried Lord Seymour, "you acted with due precaution--but why
were we obliged to appear undressed?"

"Merely to give a greater solemnity to the scene, and to excite your
imaginations by the strangeness of the proceeding."

"The second apparition prevented your ghost from speaking," said the
prince. "What should we have learnt from him?"

"Nearly the same as what you heard afterwards. It was not without
design that I asked your highness whether you had told me everything
that the deceased communicated to you, and whether you had made any
further inquiries on this subject in his country. I thought this was
necessary, in order to prevent the deposition of the ghost from being
contradicted by facts with which you were previously acquainted.
Knowing likewise that every man in his youth is liable to error,
I inquired whether the life of your friend had been irreproachable,
and on your answer I founded that of the ghost."

"Your explanation of this matter is satisfactory," resumed the prince,
after a short silence; "but there remains a principal circumstance which
I must ask you to clear up."

"If it be in my power, and--"

"No conditions! Justice, in whose hands you now are, might perhaps not
interrogate you with so much delicacy. Who was this unknown at whose
feet we saw you fall? What do you know of him? How did you get
acquainted with him? And in what way was he connected with the
appearance of the second apparition?

"Your highness"--

"On looking at him more attentively, you gave a loud scream, and fell at
his feet. What are we to understand by that?"

"This man, your highness"--He stopped, grew visibly perplexed, and with
an embarrassed countenance looked around him. "Yes, prince, by all that
is sacred, this unknown is a terrible being."

"What do you know of him? What connection have you with him? Do not
hope to conceal the truth from us."

"I shall take care not to do so,--for who will warrant that he is not
among us at this very moment?"

"Where? Who?" exclaimed we altogether, half-amused, half-startled,
looking about the room. "That is impossible."

"Oh! to this man, or whatever he may be, things still more
incomprehensible are possible."

"But who is he? Whence comes he? Is he an Armenian or a Russian? Of
the characters be assumes, which is his real one?"

"He is nothing of what he appears to be. There are few conditions or
countries of which he has not worn the mask. No person knows who he is,
whence he comes, or whither he goes. That he has been for a long time
in Egypt, as many pretend, and that he has brought from thence, out of a
catacomb, his, occult sciences, I will neither affirm nor deny. Here we
only know him by the name of the Incomprehensible. How old, for
instance, do you suppose he is?"

"To judge from his appearance he can scarcely have passed forty."

"And of what age do you suppose I am?"

"Not far from fifty."

"Quite right; and I must tell you that I was but a boy of seventeen when
my grandfather spoke to me of this marvellous man whom he had seen at
Famagusta; at which time he appeared nearly of the same age as he does
at present."

"This is exaggerated, ridiculous, and incredible."

"By no means. Were I not prevented by these fetters I could produce
vouchers whose dignity and respectability should leave you no room for
doubt. There are several credible persons who remember having seen him,
each, at the same time, in different parts of the globe. No sword can
wound, no poison can hurt, no fire can burn him; no vessel in which he
embarks can be wrecked. Time itself seems to lose its power over him.
Years do not affect his constitution, nor age whiten his hair. Never
was he seen to take any food. Never did he approach a woman. No sleep
closes his eyes. Of the twenty-four hours in the day there is only one
which he cannot command; during which no person ever saw him, and during
which he never was employed in any terrestrial occupation."

"And this hour is?"

"The twelfth in the night. When the clock strikes twelve at midnight
he ceases to belong to the living. In whatever place he is he must
immediately be gone; whatever business he is engaged in he must
instantly leave it. The terrible sound of the hour of midnight tears
him from the arms of friendship, wrests him from the altar, and would
drag him away even in the agonies of death. Whither he then goes, or
what he is then engaged in, is a secret to every one. No person
ventures to interrogate, still less to follow him. His features, at
this dread ful hour, assume a sternness of expression so gloomy and
terrifying that no person has courage sufficient to look him in the
face, or to speak a word to him. However lively the conversation may
have been, a dead silence immediately succeeds it, and all around wait
for his return in respectful silence without venturing to quit their
seats, or to open the door through which he has passed."

"Does nothing extraordinary appear in his person when he returns?"
inquired one of our party.

"Nothing, except that he seems pale and exhausted, like a man who has
just suffered a painful operation, or received some disastrous
intelligence. Some pretend to have seen drops of blood on his linen,
but with what degree of veracity I cannot affirm."

"Did no person ever attempt to conceal the approach of this hour from
him, or endeavor to preoccupy his mind in such a manner as to make him
forget it?"

"Once only, it is said, he missed the appointed time. The company was
numerous and remained together late in the night. All the clocks and
watches were purposely set wrong, and the warmth of conversation carried
him away. When the stated hour arrived he suddenly became silent and
motionless; his limbs continued in the position in which this instant
had arrested them; his eyes were fixed; his pulse ceased to beat. All
the means employed to awake him proved fruitless, and this situation
endured till the hour had elapsed. He then revived on a sudden without
any assistance, opened his eyes, and resumed his speech at the very
syllable which he was pronouncing at the moment of interruption. The
general consternation discovered to him what had happened, and he
declared, with an awful solemnity, that they ought to think themselves
happy in having escaped with the fright alone. The same night he
quitted forever the city where this circumstance had occurred. The
common opinion is that during this mysterious hour he converses with his
genius. Some even suppose him to be one of the departed who is allowed
to pass twenty-three hours of the day among the living, and that in the
twenty-fourth his soul is obliged to return to the infernal regions to
suffer its punishment. Some believe him to be the famous Apollonius of
Tyana; and others the disciple of John, of whom it is said, 'He shall
remain until the last judgment.'"

"A character so wonderful," replied the prince, "cannot fail to give
rise to whimsical conjectures. But all this you profess to know only by
hearsay, and yet his behavior to you and yours to him, seemed to
indicate a more intimate acquaintance. Is it not founded upon some
particular event in which you have yourself been concerned? Conceal
nothing from us."

The Sicilian looked at us doubtingly and remained silent.

"If it concerns something," continued the prince, "that you do not wish
to be made known, I promise you, in the name of these two gentlemen, the
most inviolable secrecy. But speak candidly and without reserve."

"Could I hope," answered the prisoner, after a long silence, "that you
would not make use of what I am going to relate as evidence against me,
I would tell you a remarkable adventure of this Armenian, of which I
myself was witness, and which will leave you no doubt of his
supernatural powers. But I beg leave to conceal some of the names."

"Cannot you do it without this condition?"

"No, your highness. There is a family concerned in it whom I have
reason to respect."

"Let us hear your story."

"It is about five years ago," began the Sicilian, "that at Naples, where
I was practising my art with tolerable success, I became acquainted with
a person of the name of Lorenzo del M-------, chevalier of the Order of
St. Stephen, a young and rich nobleman, of one of the first families in
the kingdom, who loaded me with kindnesses, and seemed to have a great
esteem for my occult knowledge. He told me that the Marquis del M--nte,
his father, was a zealous admirer of the cabala, and would think himself
happy in having a philosopher like myself (for such he was pleased to
call me) under his roof. The marquis lived in one of his country seats
on the sea-shore, about seven miles from Naples. There, almost entirely
secluded from the world, he bewailed, the loss of a beloved son, of whom
he had been deprived by a terrible calamity. The chevalier gave me to
understand that he and his family might perhaps have occasion to employ
me on a matter of the most grave importance, in the hope of gaining
through my secret science some information, to procure which all natural
means had been tried in vain. He added, with a very significant look,
that he himself might, perhaps at some future period, have reason to
look upon me as the restorer of his tranquillity, and of all his earthly
happiness. The affair was as follows:--

"This Lorenzo was the younger son of the marquis, and for that reason
had been destined for the church; the family estates were to descend to
the eldest. Jeronymo, which was the name of the latter, had spent many
years on his travels, and had returned to his country about seven years
prior to the event which I am about to relate, in order to celebrate his
marriage with the only daughter of the neighboring Count C----tti. This
marriage had been determined on by the parents during the infancy of the
children, in order to unite the large fortunes of the two houses. But
though this agreement was made by the two families, without consulting
the hearts of the parties concerned, the latter had mutually pledged
their faith to each other in secret. Jeronymo del M------ and Antonia
C----- had been brought up together, and the little restraint imposed on
two children, whom their parents were already accustomed to regard as
destined for each other, soon produced between them a connection of the
tenderest kind; the congeniality of their tempers cemented this
intimacy; and in later years it ripened insensibly into love. An
absence of four years, far from cooling this passion, had only served to
inflame it; and Jeronymo returned to the arms of his intended bride as
faithful and as ardent as if they had never been separated.

"The raptures occasioned by his return had not yet subsided, and the
preparations for the happy day were advancing with the utmost zeal and
activity, when the bridegroom disappeared. He used frequently to pass
whole afternoons in a summer-house which commanded a prospect of the
sea, and was accustomed to take the diversion of sailing on the water.
One day, on an evening spent in this manner, it was observed that he
remained absent a much longer time than usual, and his friends began to
be very uneasy on his account. Messengers were despatched after him,
vessels were sent to sea in quest of him; no person had seen him. None
of his servants were missed; he must, therefore, have gone alone. Night
came on, and he did not appear. The next morning dawned; the day
passed, the evening succeeded--, Jeronymo came not. Already they had
begun to give themselves up to the most melancholy conjectures when the
news arrived that an Algerine pirate had landed the preceeding day on
that coast, and carried off several of the inhabitants. Two galleys
which were ready for sea were immediately manned; the old marquis
himself embarked in one of them, to attempt the deliverance of his son
at the peril of his own life. On the third morning they perceived the
corsair. They had the advantage of the wind; they were just about to
overtake the pirate, and had even approached so near that Lorenzo, who
was in one of the galleys, fancied that he saw upon the deck of the
adversary's ship a signal made by his brother, when a sudden storm
separated the vessels. Hardly could the damaged galleys sustain the
fury of the tempest. The pirate in the meantime had disappeared, and
the distressed state of the other vessels obliged them to land at Malta.
The affliction of the family knew no bounds. The distracted old marquis
tore his gray hairs in the utmost violence of grief; and fears were
entertained for the life of the young countess. Five years were
consumed in fruitless inquiries. Diligent search was made along all the
coast of Barbary; immense sums were offered for the ransom of the poor
marquis, but no person came forward to claim them. The only probable
conjecture which remained for the family to form was, that the same
storm which had separated the galleys from the pirate had destroyed the
latter, and that the whole ship's company had perished in the waves.

"But, however this supposition might be, it did not by any means amount
to a certainty, and could not authorize the family altogether to
renounce the hope that the lost Jeronymo might again appear. In case,
however, that he was really dead, either the family must become extinct,
or the younger son must relinquish the church, and assume the rights of
the elder. As justice, on the one hand, seemed to oppose the latter
measure, so, on the other hand, the necessity of preserving the family
from annihilation required that the scruple should not be carried too
far. In the meantime through grief and the infirmities of age, the old
marquis was fast sinking to his grave; every unsuccessful attempt
diminished the hope of finding his lost son; he saw the danger of his
family's becoming extinct, which might be obviated by a trifling
injustice on his part, in consenting to favor his younger son at the
expense of the elder. The consummation of his alliance with the house
of Count C---tti required only that a name should be changed, for the
object of the two families was equally accomplished, whether Antonia
became the wife of Lorenzo or of Jeronymo. The faint probability of the
latter's appearing again weighed but little against the certain and
pressing danger of the total extinction of the family, and the old
marquis, who felt the approach of death every day more and more,
ardently wished at least to die free from this inquietude.

"Lorenzo, however, who was to be principally benefited by this measure,
opposed it with the greatest obstinacy. Alike unmoved by the
allurements of an immense fortune, and the attractions of the beautiful
and accomplished being whom his family were about to deliver into his
arms, he refused, on principles the most generous and conscientious, to
invade the rights of a brother, who perhaps was still alive, and might
some day return to claim his own. 'Is not the lot of my dear Jeronymo,'
said he, 'made sufficiently miserable by the horrors of a long
captivity, that I should yet add bitterness to his cup of grief by
stealing from him all that he holds most dear? With what conscience
could I supplicate heaven for his return when his wife is in my arms?
With what countenance could I hasten to meet him should he at last be
restored to us by some miracle? And even supposing that he is torn
from us forever, how can we better honor his memory than by keeping
constantly open the chasm which his death has caused in our circle? Can
we better show our respect to him than by sacrificing our dearest hopes
upon his tomb, and keeping untouched, as a sacred deposit, what was
peculiarly his own?'

"But all the arguments which fraternal delicacy could adduce were
insufficient to reconcile the old marquis to the idea of being obliged
to witness the extinction of a pedigree which nine centuries had beheld
flourishing. All that Lorenzo could obtain was a respite of two years
before leading the affianced bride of his brother to the altar. During
this period they continued their inquiries with the utmost diligence.
Lorenzo himself made several voyages, and exposed his person to many
dangers. No trouble, no expense was spared to recover the lost
Jeronymo. These two years, however, like those which preceded them,
were in vain?"

"And the Countess Antonia?" said the prince, "You tell us nothing of
her. Could she so calmly submit to her fate? I cannot suppose it."

"Antonia," answered the Sicilian, "experienced the most violent struggle
between duty and inclination, between hate and admiration. The
disinterested generosity of a brother's love affected her; she felt
herself forced to esteem a person whom she could never love. Her heart
was torn by conflicting sentiments. But her repugnance to the chevalier
seemed to increase in the same degree as his claims upon her esteem
augmented. Lorenzo perceived with heartfelt sorrow the grief that
consumed her youth. A tender compassion insensibly assumed the place of
that indifference with which, till then, he had been accustomed to
regard her; but this treacherous sentiment quickly deceived him, and an
ungovernable passion began by degrees to shake the steadiness of his
virtue--a virtue which, till then, had been unequalled.

"He, however, still obeyed the dictates of generosity, though at the
expense of his love. By his efforts alone was the unfortunate victim
protected against the arbitrary proceedings of the rest of the family.
But his endeavors were ineffectual. Every victory he gained over his
passion rendered him more worthy of Antonia; and the disinterestedness
with which he refused her left her no excuse for resistance.

"This was the state of affairs when the chevalier engaged me to visit
him at his father's villa. The earnest recommendation of my patron
procured me a reception which exceeded my most sanguine hopes. I must
not forget to mention that by some remarkable operations I had
previously rendered my name famous in different lodges of Freemasons,
which circumstance may, perhaps, have contributed to strengthen the old
marquis' confidence in me, and to heighten his expectations. I beg you
will excuse me from describing particularly the lengths I went with him,
and the means which I employed; you may judge of them from what I have
already confessed to you. Profiting by the mystic books which I found
in his very extensive library, I was soon able to converse with him in
his own language, and to adorn my system of the invisible world with the
most extraordinary inventions. In a short time I could make him believe
whatever I pleased, and he would have sworn as readily as upon an
article in the canon. Moreover, as he was very devout, and was by nature
somewhat credulous, my fables received credence the more readily, and in
a short time I had so completely surrounded and hemmed him in with
mystery that he cared for nothing that was not supernatural. In short I
became the patron saint of the house. The usual subject of my lectures
was the exaltation of human nature, and the intercourse of men with
superior beings; the infallible Count Gabalis was my oracle.

   [A mystical work of that title, written in French in 1670 by the
   Abbe do Villars, and translated into English in 1600. Pope is said
   to have borrowed from it the machinery of his Rape of the Lock.-H.
   G. B.]

"The young countess, whose mind since the loss of her lover had been more
occupied in the world of spirits than in that of nature, and who had,
moreover, a strong shade of melancholy in her composition, caught my
hints with a fearful satisfaction. Even the servants contrived to have
some business in the room when I was speaking, and seizing now and then
one of my expressions, joined the fragments together in their own way.

"Two months were passed in this manner at the marquis' villa, when the
chevalier one morning entered my apartment. A deep sorrow was painted
on his countenance, his features were convulsed, he threw himself into a
chair, with gestures of despair.

"'Captain,' said he, 'it is all over with me, I must begone; I can
remain here no longer.'

"'What is the matter, chevalier? What ails you?'

"'Oh! this fatal passion!' said he, starting frantically from his chair.
'I have combated it like a man; I can resist it no longer.'

"'And whose fault is it but yours, my dear chevalier? Are they not all
in your favor? Your father, your relations.'

"'My father, my relations! What are they to me? I want not a forced
union, but one of inclination, Have not I a rival? Alas! and what a
rival! Perhaps among the dead! Oh! let me go! Let me go to the end
of the world,--I must find my brother.'

"'What! after so many unsuccessful attempts can you still cherish hope?'

"'Hope!' replied the chevalier; 'alas! no. It has long since vanished
from my heart, but it has not from hers. Of what consequence are my
sentiments? Can I be happy while there remains a gleam of hope in
Antonia's heart? Two words, my friend, would end my torments. But it
is in vain. My destiny must continue to be miserable till eternity
shall break its long silence, and the grave shall speak in my behalf.'

"'Is it then a state of certainty that would render you happy?'

"'Happy! Alas! I doubt whether I can ever again be happy. But
uncertainty is of all others the most dreadful pain.'

"After a short interval of silence he suppressed his emotion, and
continued mournfully, 'If he could but see my torments! Surely a
constancy which renders his brother miserable cannot add to his
happiness. Can it be just that the living should suffer so much for the
sake of the dead, who can no longer enjoy earthly felicity? If he knew
the pangs I suffer,' continued he, hiding his face on my shoulder, while
the tears streamed from his eyes, 'yes, perhaps he himself would
conduct her to my arms.'

"'But is there no possibility of gratifying your wishes?'

"He started. 'What do you say, my friend?'

"'Less important occasions than the present,' said I, 'have disturbed
the repose of the dead for the sake of the living. Is not the whole
earthly happiness of a man, of a brother--'

"'The whole earthly happiness! Ah, my friend, I feel what you say is
but too true; my entire felicity.'

"'And the tranquillity of a distressed family, are not these sufficient
to justify such a measure? Undoubtedly. If any sublunary concern can
authorize us to interrupt the peace of the blessed, to make use of a
power--'

"'For God's sake, my friend,' said he, interrupting me, no more of this.
Once, I avow it, I had such a thought; I think I mentioned it to you;
but I have long since rejected it as horrid and abominable.'

"You will have conjectured already," continued the Sicilian, "to what
this conversation led us. I endeavored to overcome the scruples of the
chevalier, and at last succeeded. We resolved to summon the spirit of
the deceased Jeronymo. I only stipulated for the delay of a fortnight,
in order, as I pretended, to prepare myself in a suitable manner for so
solemn an act. The time being expired, and my machinery in readiness,
I took advantage of a very gloomy day, when we were all assembled as
usual, to obtain the consent of the family, or rather, gradually to lead
them to the subject, so that they themselves requested it of me. The
most difficult part of the task was to obtain the approbation of
Antonia, whose presence was most essential. My endeavors were, however,
greatly assisted by the melancholy turn of her mind, and perhaps still
more so by a faint hope that Jeronymo might still be living, and
therefore would not appear. A want of confidence in the thing itself,
or a doubt of my ability, was the only obstacle which I had not to
contend with.

"Having obtained the consent of the family, the third day was fixed on
for the operation. I prepared them for the solemn transaction by
mystical instruction, by fasting, solitude, and prayers, which I ordered
to be continued till late in the night. Much use was also made of a
certain musical instrument, unknown till that time, and which, in such
cases, has often been found very powerful. The effect of these
artifices was so much beyond my expectation that the enthusiasm to which
on this occasion I was obliged to force myself was infinitely heightened
by that of my audience. The anxiously-expected hour at last arrived."

"I guess," said the prince, "whom you are now going to introduce. But
go on, go on."

"No, your highness. The incantation succeeded according to my wishes."

"How? Where is the Armenian?"

"Do not fear, your highness. He will appear but too soon. I omit the
description of the farce itself, as it would lead me to too great a
length. Be it sufficient to say that it answered my utmost
expectations. The old marquis, the young countess, her mother, Lorenzo,
and a few others of the family, were present. You may imagine that
during my long residence in this house I had not wanted opportunities of
gathering information respecting everything that concerned the deceased.
Several portraits of him enabled me to give the apparition the most
striking likeness, and as I suffered the ghost to speak only by signs,
the sound of his voice could excite no suspicion.

"The departed Jeronymo appeared--in the dress of a Moorish slave, with a
deep wound in his neck. You observe that in this respect I was
counteracting the general supposition that he had perished in the waves,
for I had reason to hope that the unexpectedness of this circumstance
would heighten their belief in the apparition itself, while, on the
other hand, nothing appeared to me more dangerous than to keep too
strictly to what was natural."

"I think you judged rightly," said the prince. "In whatever respects
apparitions the most probable is the least acceptable. If their
communications are easily comprehended we undervalue the channel by
which they are obtained. Nay, we even suspect the reality of the
miracle if the discoveries which it brings to light are such as might
easily have been imagined. Why should we disturb the repose of a spirit
if it is to inform us of nothing more than the ordinary powers of the
intellect are capable of teaching us? But, on the other hand, if the
intelligence which we receive is extraordinary and unexpected it
confirms in some degree the miracle by which it is obtained; for who can
doubt an operation to be supernatural when its effect could not be
produced by natural means? I interrupt you," added the prince.
"Proceed in your narrative."

"I asked the ghost whether there was anything in this world which he
still considered as his own," continued the Sicilian, "and whether he
had left anything behind that was particularly dear to him? The ghost
shook his head three times, and lifted up his hand towards heaven.
Previous to his retiring he dropped a ring from his finger, which was
found on the floor after he had disappeared. Antonia took it, and,
looking at it attentively, she knew it to be the ring she had given her
intended husband on their betrothal."

"The ring!" exclaimed the prince, surprised. "How did you get it?"

"Who? I? It was not the true one, your highness; I got it. It was only
a counterfeit."

"A counterfeit!" repeated the prince. "But in order to counterfeit you
required the true one. How did you come by it? Surely the deceased
never went without it."

"That is true," replied the Sicilian, with symptoms of confusion. "But
from a description which was given me of the genuine ring--"

"A description which was given you! By whom?"

"Long before that time. It was a plain gold ring, and had, I believe,
the name of the young countess engraved on it. But you made me lose the
connection."

"What happened further?" said the prince, with a very dissatisfied
countenance.

"The family felt convinced that Jeronymo was no more. From that day
forward they publicly announced his death, and went into mourning. The
circumstance of the ring left no doubt, even in the mind of Antonia, and
added a considerable weight to the addresses of the chevalier.

"In the meantime the violent shock which the young countess had received
from the sight of the apparition brought on her a disorder so dangerous
that the hopes of Lorenzo were very near being destroyed forever. On
her recovery she insisted upon taking the veil; and it was only at the
most serious remonstrances of her confessor, in whom she placed implicit
confidence, that she was induced to abandon her project. At length the
united solicitations of the family, and of the confessor, forced from
her a reluctant consent. The last day of mourning was fixed on for the
day of marriage, and the old marquis determined to add to the solemnity
of the occasion by making over all his estates to his lawful heir.

"The day arrived, and Lorenzo received his trembling bride at the altar.
In the evening a splendid banquet was prepared for the cheerful guests
in a hall superbly illuminated, and the most lively and delightful music
contributed to increase the general gladness. The happy old marquis
wished all the world to participate in his joy. All the entrances of
the palace were thrown open, and every one who sympathized in his
happiness was joyfully welcomed. In the midst of the throng--"

The Sicilian paused. A trembling expectation suspended our breath.

"In-the midst of the throng," continued the prisoner, "appeared a
Franciscan monk, to whom my attention was directed by the person who sat
next to me at table. He was standing motionless like a marble pillar.
His shape was tall and thin; his face pale and ghastly; his eyes were
fixed with a grave and mournful expression on the new-married couple.
The joy which beamed on the face of every one present appeared not on
his. His countenance never once varied. He seemed like a statue among
the living. Such an object, appearing amidst the general joy, struck me
more forcibly from its contrast with everything around. It left on my
mind so indelible an impression that from it alone I have been enabled
(which would otherwise have been impossible) to recollect the features
of the Franciscan monk in the Russian officer; for, without doubt, you
must have already conceived that the person I have described was no
other than your Armenian.

"I frequently attempted to withdraw my eyes from this terrible figure,
but they wandered back involuntarily, and found his countenance
unaltered. I pointed him out to the person who sat nearest to me on the
other side, and he did the same to the person next to him. In a few
minutes a general curiosity and astonishment pervaded the whole company.
The conversation languished; a general silence succeeded; the monk did
not heed it. He continued motionless as before; his grave and mournful
looks constantly fixed upon the new-married couple; his appearance
struck every one with terror. The young countess alone, who found the
transcript of her own sorrow in the fact of the stranger, beheld with
a melancholy satisfaction the only object that seemed to understand and
sympathize in her sufferings. The crowd insensibly diminished. It was
past midnight; the music became fainter and more languid; the tapers
grew dim, and many of them went out. The conversation, declining by
degrees, lost itself at last in secret murmurs, and the faintly
illuminated hall was nearly deserted. The monk, in the meantime,
continued motionless, with the same grave and mournful look still fixed
on the new-married couple. The company at length rose from the table;
the guests dispersed; the family assembled in a separate group, and the
monk, though uninvited, continued near them. How it happened that no
person spoke to him I cannot conceive.

"The female friends now surrounded the trembling bride, who cast a
supplicating and distressed look on the venerable stranger; he did not
answer it. The gentlemen assembled in the same manner around the
bridegroom. A solemn and anxious silence prevailed among them. 'That
we should be so happy here together,' began at length the old marquis,
who alone seemed not to behold the stranger, or at least seemed to
behold him without dismay. 'That we should be so happy here together,
and my son Jeronymo cannot be with us!'

"'Have you invited him, and has he failed to come?' asked the monk.
It was the first time he had spoken. We looked at him in alarm.

"'Alas! he is gone to a place from whence there is no return,' answered
the old man. 'Reverend father I you misunderstood me. My son Jeronymo
is dead.'

"'Perhaps he only fears to appear in this company,' replied the monk.
'Who knows how your son Jeronymo may be situated? Let him now hear the
voice which he heard the last. Desire your son Lorenzo to call him.'

"'What means he?' whispered the company to one another. Lorenzo changed
color. I will not deny that my own hair began to stand on end.

"In the meantime the monk approached a sideboard; he took a glass of
wine and carried to his lips. 'To the memory of our dear Jeronymo!'
said he. 'Let every one who loved the deceased follow my example.'

"'Be you who you may, reverend father!' exclaimed the old marquis, 'you
have pronounced a name dear to us all, and you are heartily welcome
here;' then turning to us, he offered us full glasses. 'Come, my
friends!' continued he, 'let us not be surpassed by a stranger. The
memory of my son Jeronymo!

"Never, I believe, was any toast less heartily received.

"'There is one glass still unemptied," said the marquis. 'Why does my
son Lorenzo refuse to drink this friendly toast?'

"Lorenzo, trembling, received the glass from the hands of the monk;
tremblingly he put it to his lips. 'To my dearly-beloved brother
Jeronymo!' he stammered out, and replaced the glass with a shudder.

"'That was my murderer's voice!' exclaimed a terrible figure, which
appeared suddenly in the midst of us, covered with blood, and disfigured
with horrible wounds.

"Do not ask me the rest," added the Sicilian, with every symptom of
horror in his countenance. "I lost my senses the moment I looked at
this apparition. The same happened to every one present. When we
recovered the monk and the ghost had disappeared; Lorenzo was writhing
in the agonies of death. He was carried to bed in the most dreadful
convulsions. No person attended him but his confessor and the sorrowful
old marquis, in whose presence he expired. The marquis died a few weeks
after him. Lorenzo's secret is locked in the bosom of the priest who
received his last confession; no person ever learnt what it was.

"Soon after this event a well was cleaned in the farmyard of the
marquis' villa. It had been disused for many years, and was almost
closed up by shrubs and old trees. On digging among the rubbish a human
skeleton was found. The house where this happened is now no more; the
family del M-----nte is extinct, and Antonia's tomb may be seen in a
convent not far from Salerno.

"You see," continued the Sicilian, seeing us all stand silent and
thoughtful, "you see how my acquaintance with this Russian officer,
Armenian, or Franciscan friar originated. Judge now whether I had not
good cause to tremble at the sight of a being who has twice placed
himself in my way in a manner so terrible."

"I beg you will answer me one question more," said the prince, rising
from his seat. "Have you been always sincere in your account of
everything relating to the chevalier?"

"To the best of my knowledge I have," replied the Sicilian.

"You really believed him to be an honest man?"

"I did; by heaven! I did," answered he again.

"Even at the tine he gave you the ring?"

"How! He gave me no ring. I did not say that he gave me the ring."

"Very well!" said the prince, pulling the bell, and preparing to
depart. "And you believe" (going back to the prisoner) "that the ghost
of the Marquis de Lanoy, which the Russian officer introduced after your
apparition, was a true and real ghost?"

"I cannot think otherwise."

"Let us go!" said the prince, addressing himself to us. The gaoler came
in. "We have done," said the prince to him. "You, sir," turning to the
prisoner, "you shall hear further from me."

"I am tempted to ask your highness the last question you proposed to the
sorcerer," said I to the prince, when we were alone. "Do you believe
the second ghost to have been a real and true one?"

"I believe it! No, not now, most assuredly."

"Not now? Then you did once believe it?"

"I confess I was tempted for a moment to believe it something more than
the contrivance of a juggler."

"And I could wish to see the man who under similar circumstances would
not have had the same impression. But what reasons have you for
retracting your opinion? What the prisoner has related of the Armenian
ought to increase rather than diminish your belief in his super natural
powers."

"What this wretch has related of him," said the prince, interrupting me
very gravely. "I hope," continued he, "you have now no doubt but that
we have had to do with a villain."

"No; but must his evidence on that account--"

"The evidence of a villain, even supposing I had no other reason for
doubt, can have no weight against common sense and established truth.
Does a man who has already deceived me several times, and whose trade it
is to deceive, does he deserve to be heard in a cause in which the
unsupported testimony of even the most sincere adherent to truth could
not be received? Ought we to believe a man who perhaps never once spoke
truth for its own sake? Does such a man deserve credit, when he appears
as evidence against human reason and the eternal laws of nature? Would
it not be as absurd as to admit the accusation of a person notoriously
infamous against unblemished and irreproachable innocence?"

"But what motives could he have for giving so great a character to a man
whom he has so many reasons to hate?"

"I am not to conclude that he can have no motives for doing this because
I am unable to comprehend them. Do I know who has bribed him to deceive
me? I confess I cannot penetrate the whole contexture of his plan; but
he has certainly done a material injury to the cause he advocates by
proving himself to be at least an impostor, and perhaps something
worse."

"The circumstance of the ring, I allow, appears somewhat suspicions."

"It is more than suspicious," answered the prince; "it is decisive. He
received this ring from the murderer, and at the moment he received it
he must have been certain that it was from the murderer. Who but the
assassin, could have taken from the finger of the deceased a ring which
he undoubtedly never took off himself? Throughout the whole of his
narration the Sicilian has labored to persuade us that while he was
endeavoring to deceive Lorenzo, Lorenzo was in reality deceiving him.
Would he have had recourse to this subterfuge if he had not been
sensible how much he should lose in our estimation by confessing himself
an accomplice with the assassin? The whole story is visibly nothing but
a series of impostures, invented merely to connect the few truths he has
thought proper to give us. Ought I then to hesitate in disbelieving the
eleventh assertion of a person who has already deceived me ten times,
rather than admit a violation of the fundamental laws of nature, which I
have ever found in the most perfect harmony?"

"I have nothing to reply to all this, but the apparition we saw
yesterday is to me not the less incomprehensible."

"It is also incomprehensible to me, although I have been tempted to
believe that I have found a key to it."

"How so?" asked I.

"Do not you recollect that the second apparition, as soon as he entered,
walked directly up to the altar, took the crucifix in his hand, and
placed himself upon the carpet?"

"It appeared so to me."

"And this crucifix, according to the Sicilian's confession, was a
conductor. You see that the apparition hastened to make himself
electrical. Thus the blow which Lord Seymour struck him with a sword
was of course ineffectual; the electric stroke disabled his arm."

"This is true with respect to the sword. But the pistol fired by the
Sicilian, the ball of which we heard roll slowly upon the altar?"

"Are you convinced that this was the same ball which was fired from the
pistol?" replied the prince. "Not to mention that the puppet, or the
man who represented the ghost, may have been so well accoutred as to be
invulnerable by sword or bullet; but consider who it was that loaded the
pistols."

"True," said I, and a sudden light broke upon my mind; "the Russian.
officer had loaded them, but it was in our presence. How could he have
deceived us?"

"Why should he not have deceived us? Did you suspect him sufficiently
to observe him? Did you examine the ball before it was put into the
pistol? May it not have been one of quicksilver or clay? Did you take
notice whether the Russian officer really put it into the barrel, or
dropped it into his other hand? But supposing that he actually loaded
the pistols, what is to convince you that he really took the loaded ones
into the room where the ghost appeared, and did not change them for
another pair, which he might have done the more easily as nobody ever
thought of noticing him, and we were besides occupied in undressing?
And could not the figure, at the moment when we were prevented from
seeing it by the smoke of the pistol, have dropped another ball, with
which it had been beforehand provided, on the the altar? Which of these
conjectures is impossible?"