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〃I have heard of such a prophecy；〃 I answered； 〃but I never knew
in what terms it was expressed。 It professed to predict the
extinction of your family； or something of that sort； did it
not？〃
〃No inquiries；〃 he went on； 〃have traced back that prophecy to
the time when it was first made； none of our family records tell
us anything of its origin。 Old servants and old tenants of ours
remember to have heard it from their fathers and grandfathers。
The monks； whom we succeeded in the Abbey in Henry the Eighth's
time； got knowledge of it in some way； for I myself discovered
the rhymes； in which we know the prophecy to have been preserved
from a very remote period； written on a blank leaf of one of the
Abbey manuscripts。 These are the verses； if verses they deserve
to be called：
When in Wincot vault a place Waits for one of Monkton's race
When that one forlorn shall lie Graveless under open sky；
Beggared of six feet of earth； Though lord of acres from his
birth That shall be a certain sign Of the end of Monkton's
line。 Dwindling ever faster； faster； Dwindling to the last…left
master； From mortal ken； from light of day； Monkton's race shall
pass away。〃
〃The prediction seems almost vague enough to have been uttered by
an ancient oracle；〃 said I； observing that he waited； after
repeating the verses； as if expecting me to say something。
〃Vague or not； it is being accomplished；〃 he returned。 〃I am now
the 'last…left master'the last of that elder line of our family
at which the prediction points； and the corpse of Stephen Monkton
is not in the vaults of Wincot Abbey。 Wait before you exclaim
against me。 I have more to say about this。 Long before the Abbey
was ours； when we lived in the ancient manor…house near it （the
very ruins of which have long since disappeared）； the family
burying…place was in the vault under the Abbey chapel。 Whether in
those remote times the prediction against us was known and
dreaded or not； this much is certain： every one of the Monktons
（whether living at the Abbey or on the smaller estate in
Scotland） was buried in Wincot vault； no matter at what risk or
what sacrifice。 In the fierce fighting days of the olden time；
the bodies of my ancestors who fell in foreign places were
recovered and brought back to Wincot； though it often cost not
heavy ransom only； but desperate bloodshed as well； to obtain
them。 This superstition； if you please to call it so； has never
died out of the family from that time to the present day； for
centuries the succession of the dead in the vault at the Abbey
has been unbrokenabsolutely unbrokenuntil now。 The place
mentioned in the prediction as waiting to be filled is Stephen
Monkton's place； the voice that cries vainly to the earth for
shelter is the spirit…voice of the dead。 As surely as if I saw
it； I know that they have left him unburied on the ground where
he fell！〃
He stopped me before I could utter a word in remonstrance by
slowly rising to his feet； and pointing in the same direction
toward which his eyes had wandered a short time since。
〃I can guess what you want to ask me；〃 he exclaimed； sternly and
loudly； 〃you want to ask me how I can be mad enough to believe in
a doggerel prophecy uttered in an age of superstition to awe the
most ignorant hearers。 I answer〃 （at those words his voice sank
suddenly to a whisper）； 〃I answer； because _Stephen Monkton
himself stands there at this moment confirming me in my belief_。〃
Whether it was the awe and horror that looked out ghastly from
his face as he confronted me； whether it was that I had never
hitherto fairly believed in the reports about his madness； and
that the conviction of their truth now forced itself upon me on a
sudden； I know not； but I felt my blood curdling as he spoke； and
I knew in my own heart； as I sat there speechless； that I dare
not turn round and look where he was still pointing close at my
side。
〃I see there；〃 he went on； in the same whispering voice； 〃the
figure of a dark…complexioned man standing up with his head
uncovered。 One of his hands； still clutching a pistol； has fallen
to his side； the other presses a bloody handkerchief over his
mouth。 The spasm of mortal agony convulses his features； but I
know them for the features of a swarthy man who twice frightened
me by taking me up in his arms when I was a child at Wincot
Abbey。 I asked the nurses at the time who that man was； and they
told me it was my uncle； Stephen Monkton。 Plainly； as if he stood
there living； I see him now at your side； with the death…glare in
his great black eyes； and so have I ever seen him； since the
moment when he was shot； at home and abroad； waking or sleeping；
day and night； we are always together； wherever I go！〃
His whispering tones sank into almost inaudible murmuring as he
pronounced these last words。 From the direction and expression of
his eyes； I suspected that he was speaking to the apparition。 If
I had beheld it myself at that moment； it would have been； I
think； a less horrible sight to witness than to see him； as I saw
him now； muttering inarticulately at vacancy。 My own nerves were
more shaken than I could have thought possible by what had
passed。 A vague dread of being near him in his present mood came
over me； and I moved back a step or two。
He noticed the action instantly。
〃Don't go！ praypray don't go！ Have I alarmed you？ Don't you
believe me？ Do the lights make your eyes ache？ I only asked you
to sit in the glare of the candles because I could not bear to
see the light that always shines from the phantom there at dusk
shining over you as you sat in the shadow。 Don't godon't leave
me yet！〃
There was an utter forlornness； an unspeakable misery in his face
as he spoke these words； which gave me back my self…possession by
the simple process of first moving me to pity。 I resumed my
chair； and said that I would stay with him as long as he wished。
〃Thank you a thousand times。 You are patience and kindness
itself；〃 he said； going back to his former place
and resuming his former gentleness of manner。 〃Now that I have
got over my first confession of the misery that follows me in
secret wherever I go； I think I can tell you calmly all that
remains to be told。 You see； as I said； my Uncle Stephen〃 he
turned away his head quickly； and looked down at the table as the
name passed his lips〃my Uncle Stephen came twice to Wincot
while I was a child； and on both occasions frightened me
dreadfully。 He only took me up in his arms and spoke to mevery
kindly； as I afterward heard； for _him_but he terrified me；
nevertheless。 Perhaps I was frightened at his great stature； his
swarthy complexion； and his thick black hair and mustache； as
other children might have been； perhaps the mere sight of him had
some strange influence on me which I could not then understand
and cannot now explain。 However it was； I used to dream of him
long after he had gone away； and to fancy that he was stealing on
me to catch me up in his arms whenever I was left in the dark。
The servants who took care of me found this out； and used to
threaten me with my Uncle Stephen whenever I was perverse and
difficult to manage。 As I grew up； I still retained my vague
dread and abhorrence of our absent relative。 I always listened
intently； yet without knowing why； whenever his name was
mentioned by my father or my motherlistened with an
unaccountable presentiment that something terrible had happened
to him； or was about to happen to me。 This feeling only changed
when I was left alone in the Abbey； and then it seemed to merge
into the eager curiosity which had begun to grow on me； rather
before that time； about the origin of the ancient prophecy
predicting the extinction of our race。 Are you following me？〃
〃I follow every word with the closest attention。〃
〃You must know； then； that I had first found out some fragments
of the old rhyme in which the prophecy occurs quoted as a
curiosity in an antiquarian book in the library。 On the page
opposite this quotation had been pasted a rude old wood…cut；
representing a dark…haired man； whose face was so strangely like
what I remembered of my Uncle Stephen that the portrait
absolutely startled me。 When I asked my father about thisit was
then just before his deathhe either knew； or pretended to know；
nothing of it； and when I afterward mentioned the prediction he
fretfully changed the subject。 It was just the same with our
chaplain when I spoke to him。 He said the portrait had been done
centuries before my uncle was born； and called the prophecy
doggerel and nonsense。 I used to argue with him on the latter
point； asking why we Catholics； who believed that the gift of
working miracles had never departed from certain favored persons；
might not just as well believe that the gift of prophecy had
never departed； either？ He would not dispute with me； he would
only say that I must not waste time in thinking of such trifles；
that I had more imagination than was good for me； and must
suppress instead of exciting it。 Such advice as this only
irritated my curiosity。 I determined secretly to search
throughout the oldest uninhabited part of the Abbey； and to try
if I could not find out f