uthey, "they gleamed
with demon light." John held the candle to the portrait, and could
distinguish the words on the border: "Jno. Melmoth, anno 1646." He gazed
in stupid horror until recalled by his uncle's cough.

"You have seen the portrait?" whispered old Melmoth.

"Yes."

"Well, you will see him again--he is still alive."

Later in the night, when the miser was at the point of death, John saw a
figure enter the room, deliberately look round, and retire. The face of
the figure was the face of the portrait! After a moment of terror, John
sprang up to pursue, but the shrieks of his uncle recalled him. The
agony was nearly ended; in a few minutes old Melmoth was dead.

In the will, which made John a wealthy man, there was an instruction to
him to destroy the portrait in the closet, and also to destroy a
manuscript that he would find in the mahogany chest under the portrait;
he was to read the manuscript if he pleased.

On a cold and gloomy evening John entered the closet, found the
manuscript, and with a feeling of superstitious awe, began to read it.
The task was a hard one, for the manuscript was discoloured and
mutilated, and much was quite indecipherable.

John was able to gather, however, that it was the narrative of an
Englishman, named Stanton, who had travelled in Spain in the seventeenth
century. On one night of storm, Stanton had seen carried past him the
bodies of two lovers who had been killed by lightning. As he watched, a
man had stepped forward, had looked calmly at the bodies, and had burst
into a horrible demoniac laugh. Stanton saw the man several times,
always in circumstances of horror; he learnt that his name was Melmoth.
This being exercised a kind of fascination over Stanton, who searched
for him far and wide. Ultimately, Stanton was confined in a madhouse by
relatives who wanted to secure his property; and from the madhouse he
was offered, but refused, release by Melmoth as a result of some
bargain, the nature of which was not revealed.

After reading this story, John Melmoth raised his eyes, and he started
involuntarily as they encountered those of the portrait. With a shudder,
he tore the portrait from its frame, and rushed into his room, where he
flung its fragments on the fire.

The mansion was close by the iron-bound coast of Wicklow, in Ireland,
and on the next night John was summoned forth by the news that a vessel
was in distress. He saw immediately that the ship was doomed. Sh