〃I　have　heard　of　such　a　prophecy；〃　I　answered；　〃but　I　never　knew
  in　what　terms　it　was　expressed。　It　professed　to　predict　the
  extinction　of　your　family；　or　something　of　that　sort；　did　it
  not？〃
  〃No　inquiries；〃　he　went　on；　〃have　traced　back　that　prophecy　to
  the　time　when　it　was　first　made；　none　of　our　family　records　tell
  us　anything　of　its　origin。　Old　servants　and　old　tenants　of　ours
  remember　to　have　heard　it　from　their　fathers　and　grandfathers。
  The　monks；　whom　we　succeeded　in　the　Abbey　in　Henry　the　Eighth's
  time；　got　knowledge　of　it　in　some　way；　for　I　myself　discovered
  the　rhymes；　in　which　we　know　the　prophecy　to　have　been　preserved
  from　a　very　remote　period；　written　on　a　blank　leaf　of　one　of　the
  Abbey　manuscripts。　These　are　the　verses；　if　verses　they　deserve
  to　be　called：
  When　in　Wincot　vault　a　place　Waits　for　one　of　Monkton's　race
  When　that　one　forlorn　shall　lie　Graveless　under　open　sky；
  Beggared　of　six　feet　of　earth；　Though　lord　of　acres　from　his
  birth　That　shall　be　a　certain　sign　Of　the　end　of　Monkton's
  line。　Dwindling　ever　faster；　faster；　Dwindling　to　the　last…left
  master；　From　mortal　ken；　from　light　of　day；　Monkton's　race　shall
  pass　away。〃
  〃The　prediction　seems　almost　vague　enough　to　have　been　uttered　by
  an　ancient　oracle；〃　said　I；　observing　that　he　waited；　after
  repeating　the　verses；　as　if　expecting　me　to　say　something。
  〃Vague　or　not；　it　is　being　accomplished；〃　he　returned。　〃I　am　now
  the　'last…left　master'the　last　of　that　elder　line　of　our　family
  at　which　the　prediction　points；　and　the　corpse　of　Stephen　Monkton
  is　not　in　the　vaults　of　Wincot　Abbey。　Wait　before　you　exclaim
  against　me。　I　have　more　to　say　about　this。　Long　before　the　Abbey
  was　ours；　when　we　lived　in　the　ancient　manor…house　near　it　（the
  very　ruins　of　which　have　long　since　disappeared）；　the　family
  burying…place　was　in　the　vault　under　the　Abbey　chapel。　Whether　in
  those　remote　times　the　prediction　against　us　was　known　and
  dreaded　or　not；　this　much　is　certain：　every　one　of　the　Monktons
  （whether　living　at　the　Abbey　or　on　the　smaller　estate　in
  Scotland）　was　buried　in　Wincot　vault；　no　matter　at　what　risk　or
  what　sacrifice。　In　the　fierce　fighting　days　of　the　olden　time；
  the　bodies　of　my　ancestors　who　fell　in　foreign　places　were
  recovered　and　brought　back　to　Wincot；　though　it　often　cost　not
  heavy　ransom　only；　but　desperate　bloodshed　as　well；　to　obtain
  them。　This　superstition；　if　you　please　to　call　it　so；　has　never
  died　out　of　the　family　from　that　time　to　the　present　day；　for
  centuries　the　succession　of　the　dead　in　the　vault　at　the　Abbey
  has　been　unbrokenabsolutely　unbrokenuntil　now。　The　place
  mentioned　in　the　prediction　as　waiting　to　be　filled　is　Stephen
  Monkton's　place；　the　voice　that　cries　vainly　to　the　earth　for
  shelter　is　the　spirit…voice　of　the　dead。　As　surely　as　if　I　saw
  it；　I　know　that　they　have　left　him　unburied　on　the　ground　where
  he　fell！〃
  He　stopped　me　before　I　could　utter　a　word　in　remonstrance　by
  slowly　rising　to　his　feet；　and　pointing　in　the　same　direction
  toward　which　his　eyes　had　wandered　a　short　time　since。
  〃I　can　guess　what　you　want　to　ask　me；〃　he　exclaimed；　sternly　and
  loudly；　〃you　want　to　ask　me　how　I　can　be　mad　enough　to　believe　in
  a　doggerel　prophecy　uttered　in　an　age　of　superstition　to　awe　the
  most　ignorant　hearers。　I　answer〃　（at　those　words　his　voice　sank
  suddenly　to　a　whisper）；　〃I　answer；　because　_Stephen　Monkton
  himself　stands　there　at　this　moment　confirming　me　in　my　belief_。〃
  Whether　it　was　the　awe　and　horror　that　looked　out　ghastly　from
  his　face　as　he　confronted　me；　whether　it　was　that　I　had　never
  hitherto　fairly　believed　in　the　reports　about　his　madness；　and
  that　the　conviction　of　their　truth　now　forced　itself　upon　me　on　a
  sudden；　I　know　not；　but　I　felt　my　blood　curdling　as　he　spoke；　and
  I　knew　in　my　own　heart；　as　I　sat　there　speechless；　that　I　dare
  not　turn　round　and　look　where　he　was　still　pointing　close　at　my
  side。
  〃I　see　there；〃　he　went　on；　in　the　same　whispering　voice；　〃the
  figure　of　a　dark…complexioned　man　standing　up　with　his　head
  uncovered。　One　of　his　hands；　still　clutching　a　pistol；　has　fallen
  to　his　side；　the　other　presses　a　bloody　handkerchief　over　his
  mouth。　The　spasm　of　mortal　agony　convulses　his　features；　but　I
  know　them　for　the　features　of　a　swarthy　man　who　twice　frightened
  me　by　taking　me　up　in　his　arms　when　I　was　a　child　at　Wincot
  Abbey。　I　asked　the　nurses　at　the　time　who　that　man　was；　and　they
  told　me　it　was　my　uncle；　Stephen　Monkton。　Plainly；　as　if　he　stood
  there　living；　I　see　him　now　at　your　side；　with　the　death…glare　in
  his　great　black　eyes；　and　so　have　I　ever　seen　him；　since　the
  moment　when　he　was　shot；　at　home　and　abroad；　waking　or　sleeping；
  day　and　night；　we　are　always　together；　wherever　I　go！〃
  His　whispering　tones　sank　into　almost　inaudible　murmuring　as　he
  pronounced　these　last　words。　From　the　direction　and　expression　of
  his　eyes；　I　suspected　that　he　was　speaking　to　the　apparition。　If
  I　had　beheld　it　myself　at　that　moment；　it　would　have　been；　I
  think；　a　less　horrible　sight　to　witness　than　to　see　him；　as　I　saw
  him　now；　muttering　inarticulately　at　vacancy。　My　own　nerves　were
  more　shaken　than　I　could　have　thought　possible　by　what　had
  passed。　A　vague　dread　of　being　near　him　in　his　present　mood　came
  over　me；　and　I　moved　back　a　step　or　two。
  He　noticed　the　action　instantly。
  〃Don't　go！　praypray　don't　go！　Have　I　alarmed　you？　Don't　you
  believe　me？　Do　the　lights　make　your　eyes　ache？　I　only　asked　you
  to　sit　in　the　glare　of　the　candles　because　I　could　not　bear　to
  see　the　light　that　always　shines　from　the　phantom　there　at　dusk
  shining　over　you　as　you　sat　in　the　shadow。　Don't　godon't　leave
  me　yet！〃
  There　was　an　utter　forlornness；　an　unspeakable　misery　in　his　face
  as　he　spoke　these　words；　which　gave　me　back　my　self…possession　by
  the　simple　process　of　first　moving　me　to　pity。　I　resumed　my
  chair；　and　said　that　I　would　stay　with　him　as　long　as　he　wished。
  〃Thank　you　a　thousand　times。　You　are　patience　and　kindness
  itself；〃　he　said；　going　back　to　his　former　place
  and　resuming　his　former　gentleness　of　manner。　〃Now　that　I　have
  got　over　my　first　confession　of　the　misery　that　follows　me　in
  secret　wherever　I　go；　I　think　I　can　tell　you　calmly　all　that
  remains　to　be　told。　You　see；　as　I　said；　my　Uncle　Stephen〃　he
  turned　away　his　head　quickly；　and　looked　down　at　the　table　as　the
  name　passed　his　lips〃my　Uncle　Stephen　came　twice　to　Wincot
  while　I　was　a　child；　and　on　both　occasions　frightened　me
  dreadfully。　He　only　took　me　up　in　his　arms　and　spoke　to　mevery
  kindly；　as　I　afterward　heard；　for　_him_but　he　terrified　me；
  nevertheless。　Perhaps　I　was　frightened　at　his　great　stature；　his
  swarthy　complexion；　and　his　thick　black　hair　and　mustache；　as
  other　children　might　have　been；　perhaps　the　mere　sight　of　him　had
  some　strange　influence　on　me　which　I　could　not　then　understand
  and　cannot　now　explain。　However　it　was；　I　used　to　dream　of　him
  long　after　he　had　gone　away；　and　to　fancy　that　he　was　stealing　on
  me　to　catch　me　up　in　his　arms　whenever　I　was　left　in　the　dark。
  The　servants　who　took　care　of　me　found　this　out；　and　used　to
  threaten　me　with　my　Uncle　Stephen　whenever　I　was　perverse　and
  difficult　to　manage。　As　I　grew　up；　I　still　retained　my　vague
  dread　and　abhorrence　of　our　absent　relative。　I　always　listened
  intently；　yet　without　knowing　why；　whenever　his　name　was
  mentioned　by　my　father　or　my　motherlistened　with　an
  unaccountable　presentiment　that　something　terrible　had　happened
  to　him；　or　was　about　to　happen　to　me。　This　feeling　only　changed
  when　I　was　left　alone　in　the　Abbey；　and　then　it　seemed　to　merge
  into　the　eager　curiosity　which　had　begun　to　grow　on　me；　rather
  before　that　time；　about　the　origin　of　the　ancient　prophecy
  predicting　the　extinction　of　our　race。　Are　you　following　me？〃
  〃I　follow　every　word　with　the　closest　attention。〃
  〃You　must　know；　then；　that　I　had　first　found　out　some　fragments
  of　the　old　rhyme　in　which　the　prophecy　occurs　quoted　as　a
  curiosity　in　an　antiquarian　book　in　the　library。　On　the　page
  opposite　this　quotation　had　been　pasted　a　rude　old　wood…cut；
  representing　a　dark…haired　man；　whose　face　was　so　strangely　like
  what　I　remembered　of　my　Uncle　Stephen　that　the　portrait
  absolutely　startled　me。　When　I　asked　my　father　about　thisit　was
  then　just　before　his　deathhe　either　knew；　or　pretended　to　know；
  nothing　of　it；　and　when　I　afterward　mentioned　the　prediction　he
  fretfully　changed　the　subject。　It　was　just　the　same　with　our
  chaplain　when　I　spoke　to　him。　He　said　the　portrait　had　been　done
  centuries　before　my　uncle　was　born；　and　called　the　prophecy
  doggerel　and　nonsense。　I　used　to　argue　with　him　on　the　latter
  point；　asking　why　we　Catholics；　who　believed　that　the　gift　of
  working　miracles　had　never　departed　from　certain　favored　persons；
  might　not　just　as　well　believe　that　the　gift　of　prophecy　had
  never　departed；　either？　He　would　not　dispute　with　me；　he　would
  only　say　that　I　must　not　waste　time　in　thinking　of　such　trifles；
  that　I　had　more　imagination　than　was　good　for　me；　and　must
  suppress　instead　of　exciting　it。　Such　advice　as　this　only
  irritated　my　curiosity。　I　determined　secretly　to　search
  throughout　the　oldest　uninhabited　part　of　the　Abbey；　and　to　try
  if　I　could　not　find　out　f