All at once
Barnabas knew that his companion's fear of him was gone, swallowed
up--forgotten in terror of the unknown. He heard a slow-drawn,
quivering sigh, and then, pale in the dimness, her hand came out to
him, crept down his arm, and finding his hand, hid itself in his
warm clasp; and her hand was marvellous cold, and her fingers
stirred and trembled in his.
Came again a rustling in the leaves, but louder now, and drawing
nearer and nearer, and ever the fairy chime swelled upon the air.
And even as it came Barnabas felt her closer, until her shoulder
touched his, until the fragrance of her breath fanned his cheek,
until the warmth of her soft body thrilled through him, until, loud
and sudden in the silence, a voice rose--a rich, deep voice:
"'Now is the witching hour when graveyards yawn'--the witching
hour--aha!--Oh! poor pale ghost, I know thee--by thy night-black
hair and sad, sweet eyes--I know thee. Alas, so young and
dead--while I, alas, so old and much alive! Yet I, too, must die
some day--soon, soon, beloved shadow. Then shall my shade encompass
thine and float up with thee into the infinite. But now, aha! now is
the witching hour! Oh! shades and phantoms, I summon thee, fairies,
pixies, ghosts and goblins, come forth, and I will sing you and
dance you.
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