The town is
composed of one desolate street; and midway in that street stands the
inn--an ancient stone building sadly out of repair. The painting on the
sign-board is obliterated. The shutters over the long range of front
windows are all closed. A cock and his hens are the only living creatures
at the door. Plainly, this is one of the old inns of the stage-coach
period, ruined by the railway. We pass through the open arched doorway,
and find no one to welcome us. We advance into the stable yard behind; I
assist my wife to dismount--and there we are in the position already
disclosed to view at the opening of this narrative. No bell to ring. No
human creature to answer when I call. I stand helpless, with the bridles
of the horses in my hand. Mrs. Fairbank saunters gracefully down the
length of the yard and does--what all women do, when they find themselves
in a strange place. She opens every door as she passes it, and peeps in.
On my side, I have just recovered my breath, I am on the point of shouting
for the hostler for the third and last time, when I hear Mrs. Fairbank
suddenly call to me:

"Percy! come here!"

Her voice is eager and agitated. She has opened a last door at the end of
the yard, and has started back from some sight which has suddenly met her
view. I hitch the horses' bridles on a rusty nail in the wall near me, and
join my wife. She has turned pale, and catches me nervously by the arm.

"Good heavens!" she cries; "look at that!"

I look--and what do I see? I see a dingy little stable, containing two
stalls. In one stall a horse is munching his corn. In the other a man is
lying asleep on the litter.

A worn, withered, woebegone man in a hostler's dress. His hollow wrinkled
cheeks, his scanty grizzled hair, his dry yellow skin, tell their own tale
of past sorrow or suffering. There is an ominous frown on his
eyebrows--there is a painful nervous contraction on the side of his mouth.
I hear him breathing convulsively when I first look in; he shudders and
sighs in his sleep. It is not a pleasant sight to see, and I turn round
instinctively to the bright sunlight in the yard. My wife turns me back
again in the direction of the stable door.

"Wait!" she says. "Wait! he may do it again."

"Do what again?"

"He was talking in his sleep, Percy, when I first looked in. He was
dreaming some dreadful dream. Hush! he's beginning again."

I look and listen. The man stirs on his miserable bed. The man speaks