One November morning this policy of silence was put sharply to the test. He had been awake all night with a racking toothache-pacing his room like a caged beast or throwing himself in fury on his bed-and had fallen at last into that profound, uneasy slumber that so often follows on a night of pain, when he was awakened by the third or fourth angry repetition of the concerted signal. There was a thin, bright moonshine;it was bitter cold, windy, and frosty;the town had not yet awakened, but an indefinable stir already preluded the noise and business of the day. The ghouls had come later than usual, and they seemed more than usually eager to be gone. Fettes, sick with sleep, lighted them upstairs. He heard their grumbling Irish voices through a dream;and as they stripped the sack from their sad merchandise he leaned dozing, with his shoulder propped against the wall;he had to shake himself to find the men their money. As he did so his eyes lighted on the dead face. He started;he took two steps nearer, with the candle raised.
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