The chill was but transient. My aunt, who was almost as resolute a personage as your uncle, sir, (turning to the old story teller), became instantly calm and collected.She went on adjusting her dress.She even hummed an air, and did not make even a single false note.She casually overturned a dressing box;took a candle and picked up the articles one by one from the floor;pursued a roiling pincushion that was making the best of its way under the bed;then opened the door;looked for an instant into the corridor, as if in doubt whether to go;and then walked quietly out.
She hastened downstairs, ordered the servants to arm themselves with the weapons first at hand, placed herself at their head, and returned almost immediately.
Her hastily levied army presented a formidable force. The steward had a rusty blunderbuss, the coachman a loaded whip, the footman a pair of horse pistols, the cook a huge chopping knife, and the butler a bottle in each hand.My aunt led the van with a red-hot poker, and in my opinion she was the most formidable of the party.The waiting maid, who dreaded to stay alone in the servants'hall, brought up the rear, smelling to a broken bottle of volatile salts, and expressing her terror of the "ghostesses". "Ghosts!" said my aunt resolutely. "I'll singe their whiskers for them!"
They entered the chamber. All was still and undisturbed as when she had left it.They approached the portrait of my uncle.
"Pull down that picture!" cried my aunt. A heavy groan, and a sound like the chattering of teeth, issued from the portrait.The servants shrunk back;the maid uttered a faint shriek, and clung to the footman for support.
"Instantly!" added my aunt, with a stamp of the foot. The picture was pulled down, and from a recess behind it, in which had formerly stood a clock, they hauled forth a round-shouldered, black-bearded varlet, with a knife as long as my arm, but trembling all over like an aspen leaf.