even look upon you. Whoever you may be, leave me.”
The black horseman turned his steed. “The rising hairs of your head,” cried he with gloomy gravity, “declare that you do know me. You are right; I am he whom you name in the secrecy of your soul, and shudder to think you have done so.” At these words he disappeared, and the trees under which he had stood let their withered branches sink helpless and dead to the earth.
“Merciful Heaven! William,” said Catherine, on remarking his pale and distracted look on his return after midnight; “what has happened to you? you look as if you had just risen from the grave.” “It is the night air,” he replied; “and I am not well.” “But, William,” said the forester, who had just entered, “why then would you go to the forest: something has happened to you there. Boy, you cannot thus blind me.”
William was startled; the sad solemnity of Bertram’s manner struck him. “Yes, something has occurred,” said he; “but have patience for a few days, and all shall be explained to your satisfaction.” “Willingly, dear son,” interrupted the forester; “question him no further, Catherine. Go to your needful rest, William, and indulge in
