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CHAP. VII.
That night was past without rest by any part of the family at the Castle. Every breath of wind, the least motion of the trees, was magnified into the sound of feet, and murmuring of voices. Day-light at last came, and their terrors began a little to subside; they met dejected and unrefreshed; Ferdinand, ashamed of his credulity, tortured by the recollection of the man's information, and grieved at the painful situation his imprudence had thrown the family into, who had so kindly attended to him, with many other additional causes of inquietude, appeared with a countenance so truly dejected, an
