The lightning has set fire to a mill, and the reflection of the rapidly consuming building falls upon that long window.

There can be no mistake.

The figure is there, still feeling for an entrance, and clattering against the glass with its long nails, that appear as if the growth of many years had been untouched.

She tries to scream again but a choking sensation comes over her, and she cannot.

It is too dreadful--she tries to move--each limb seems weighed down by tons of lead--she can but in a hoarse faint whisper cry,-- "Help--help--help--help!" And that one word she repeats like a person in a dream.