he rode to the next town for a carouse, and had a high one.
Got home late and tired; locked his door, took out the key, and
went to bed.
After all, let a man take what pains he may to hush it down,
a human soul is an awful ghostly, unquiet possession, for a
bad man to have. Who knows the metes and bounds of it? Who knows
all its awful perhapses,--those shudderings and tremblings, which
it can no more live down than it can outlive its own eternity!
What a fool is he who locks his door to keep out spirits, who has
in his own bosom a spirit he dares not meet alone,--whose voice,
smothered far down, and piled over with mountains of earthliness,
is yet like the forewarning trumpet of doom!
But Legree locked his door and set a chair against it; he set
a night-lamp at the head of his bed; and put his pistols there.
He examined the catches and fastenings of the windows, and then
swore he "didn't care for the devil and all his angels," and went
to sleep.
Well, he slept, for he was tired,--slept soundly. But, finally,
there came over his sleep a shadow, a horror, an apprehension
of something dreadful{*filter*} over him. It was his mother's shroud,
he thought; but Cassy had it, holding it up, and showing it to him.
He heard a confused noise of screams and groanings; and, with it
all, he knew he was asleep, and he struggled to wake himself.
He was half awake. He was sure something was coming into his room.
He knew the door was opening, but he could not stir hand or foot.
At last he turned, with a start; the door _was_ open, and he saw
a hand putting out his light.
It was a cloudy, misty moonlight, and there he saw it!--something
white, gliding in! He heard the still rustle of its ghostly garments.
It stood still by his bed;--a cold hand touched his; a voice said,
three times, in a low, fearf