Upon the young man's negative answer, Scrooge cleared his throat, as was his custom when preparing for a lengthy oration, and began: "It was always the wish of Count Charles, your father, to keep from you the gloomy secret of his old home. He made promise never to let you hear of the priestess, but since you have decided to visit Wrightstone I must tell you for your own welfare. You have been told that your grandfather, Sir William, was murdered in the castle, but how or why he was murdered you never knew. Did you ever reflect upon that? The secret is, Master Richard, and I like not to tell you, but there is a curse upon Wright-
"Sir William was found lying on the floor of his study, his heart torn from his body—the work of the priestess. The apparition is evidently a druid priestess, for she carried a druidical sacrificial knife in her hand, with which she pierces her victims and tears out their living hearts. The fiend has haunted the castle for generations, and an old legend tells that the specter can never be laid until two of the heads of the ruling family of Wrightstone have sacrificed their throbbing hearts to her gleaming scalpel. When or how the legend originated none can tell; suffice it to say that in my time your grandfather and three peasants have died by her fiendish hand.
"It is for this reason, Master Richard, that I and the servants implored you to forbear from visiting the haunted castle. I am old, and age brings queer prognostications; I fear I may live to see a second lord of Wrightstone meet his end thus. God forbid!"
With these words Scrooge lapsed into silence, and no amount of questioning from Richard could make the old man speak further. By the time the party arrived at the castle Richard fully decided to investigate the hauntings of the druid priestess. True, he had heard a few strange tales of his father's castle, but of the priestess he had never been told.
Though its crude, gray exterior betokened gloom, the bleak walls of Wrightstone hid richly furnished rooms, crackling fires on the large hearths, and cozy corners hidden by velvet tapestries. The first few weeks were devoted to making the great rooms habitable for the reception of the guests, and the incident of the specter and her weird slayings were forgotten by the young count for the while.
Late one evening several weeks after his arrival at the castle, Richard was reading over several old and musty manuscripts in the study, in which room the dead body of old Sir William, had been found. The blazing logs on the hearth had dwindled to mere glowing embers, and the candles in the massive bronze candelabra were sputtering and burning low.
A strange silence brooded over the aged structure, and a choking stuffiness seemed to pervade the room. Richard, annoyed by the choking atmosphere, laid aside the manuscript he was perusing and prepared to rise, when his eye caught the flashing reflection of the candle light on a polished surface before him. Looking up, he was horrified to behold the specter priestess of the castle standing before him.
His horror gave way to wonder as he gazed upon the beautiful figure that smiled down upon him. A young girl was the priestess, her golden tresses falling over her shoulders, which were draped in a long, flowing, white robe. Her lips were slightly parted in a smile, and her blue eyes seemed to convey a message of fiendish triumph; nevertheless they were entrancing and held the young man spellbound. In her right hand was grasped a gleaming, crescent-shaped
