"Oh, laith, laith were our gude Scot lords
To wet their cork-heeled shoon,"
says the grand old ballad; so, I suppose, it is nothing "unbecoming the
character of an officer and a gentleman" to hold such midnight
irrigation in utter abhorrence.
On one of these occasions I abandoned a post no longer tenable, and went
into the small saloon close by, to seek a dry spot whereon to finish the
night, I found it occupied by a ghastly man, with long, wild gray hair,
and a white face--striding staggeringly up and down--moaning to himself
in a harsh, hollow voice, "No rest; I can't rest." He never spoke any
other words, and never ceased repeating these, while I remained to hear
him. Instantly there came back to my memory a horrible German tale, read
and forgotten fifteen years ago, of a certain old and unjust steward,
Daniel by name, who, having murdered his master by casting him down an
oubliettes, ever haunted the fatal tower, first as a sleep-walker, then
as a restless ghost--moaning and gibbering to himself, and tearing at a
walled-up door with bleeding hands. The train of thought thereby
suggested was so very sombre, that I preferred returning to my cabin,
and climbing into an unfurnished berth, to spending more minutes in that
weird company.
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