It is a human skull.

Only a short time ago it was a living man, with a voice, and eyes, and brain--and that is what makes me uncomfortable.

If it were an old skull, it would be different.

But it is a new skull.

Almost I fancy at times that there is life lurking in the eyeless sockets, where the red firelight from the pitch-weighted logs plays in grewsome flashes; and I fancy, too, that in the brainless cavities of the skull there must still be some of the old passion, stirred into spirit life by the very madness of this night.