The moonlight fell in cold slanting rays; but an army of dark clouds were hurrying up from the horizon, looking in their weird shapes like the mounted Walkyres in Wagner's "Niebelungen Ring," galloping to Walhalla with the bodies of dead warriors slung before them.

A low moaning wind had arisen, and was beginning to sob round the house like the Banshee.

Hark! what was that?
I started violently.

Surely that was a faint shriek?
I listened intently.

Nothing but the wind rustling among some creaking branches.
"A woman wailing for her demon-lover." How that line haunted me! And with, it there slowly grew up in my mind a black looming horror; an idea, vague and ghastly, that froze my blood and turned me faint and giddy.