, meagre figure standing, wrapped in a dark cloak, knocking
louder and louder on the closed shutters of Mr. Warnatz, the
ironmonger's shop (which, as everybody knows, is therein situated);
knocking louder and louder, and then going back a few paces and sighing
profoundly, gazing up as he did so at the windows of the Tower, which
were shut.

"My dear sir," said the Clerk of the Privy Chancery, addressing this
personage in a civil and courteous manner, "you are evidently under
some misapprehension. There is not a single human creature up in that
Tower; and indeed--if we except a certain number of rats and mice, and
a few little owls--not a living thing. If you wish to provide yourself
with something superior in the hardware line from Warnatz's celebrated
emporium here, you will have to take the trouble to come back in the
forenoon."

"Respected Herr Tussmann----" the stranger began.

And Tussmann chimed in with "Clerk of the Privy Chancery, of many
years seniority." He was a little annoyed, too--astonished, at all
events--that the stranger seemed to know him. But the latter did not
seem to mind that in the least, but recommenced:

"Respected Herr Tussmann, you are kind enough to be making a complete
mistake as to the nature of my proceedings here. I do not want
ironmongery or hardware of any description; neither have I anything to
do with Mr. Warnatz. This is the night of the autumnal equinox, and I
want to see my future wife! She has heard my ardent and longing
summons, and my sighs of affection, and she will come and show herself
up at that window directly."

The hollow tones in which the man spoke these words had about them
something so solemn--nay, so spectral and supernatural--that the Clerk
of the Privy Chancery felt an icy shudder run through his veins. The
first stroke of eleven rung down from the tower of St. Mary's, and as
it did so, there came a clattering and a clinking up at the broken old
window of the Tower, and a female form became visible at it. As the
bright light of the street lamps fell upon the face of this figure,
Tussmann whimpered out in lamentable tones, "Oh, ye just powers!--Oh,
ye heavenly hosts!--what--_what_ is this?"

At the last stroke of eleven--that is, at the moment when Tussmann
generally put on his nightcap--the female figure vanished.

This extraordinary apparition seemed to drive the Clerk of the Privy
Chancery completely out of his senses. He sighed, groaned, gazed up at
the