as unknown to the ancients, and that it arrived in Europe,
introduced, perhaps, by the Crusaders, after the Middle Ages.' I think,"
added the prelate, looking round, not without satisfaction, "that I have
completely disposed of the rat hypothesis, as far, at least, as the
ghosts of classical tradition are concerned."

"Your reasoning, bishop," replied Lord Birkenhead, "is worthy of your
reputation; but pray pardon the curiosity which entreats you to return
from the simulacra of the past to the ghost of the present."

"I had not long been occupied with M. Renan," said the bishop, thus
adjured, "when I became aware of the presence of another person in the
room. I think my eyes had strayed from the volume, as I turned a page,
to the table, on which I perceived the brown strong hand of a young man.
Looking up, I beheld my friend the priest, who was indeed a man of some
twenty-seven years of age, with a frank and open, though somewhat
careworn, aspect. I at once rose, and asked if I could be of service to
him in anything, and I trust I did not betray any wounding suspicion that
he was other than a man of flesh and blood.

"'You can, indeed, my lord, relieve me of a great burden,' said the young
man, and it was apparent enough that he _did_ acknowledge the validity of
Anglican orders. 'Will you kindly take from the shelf that volume of
Cicero "De Officiis," he said, pointing to a copy of an Elzevir variorum
edition,--not the small duodecimo Elzevir,--'remove the paper you will
find there, and burn it in the fire on the hearth.'

"'Certainly I will do as you say, but will you reward me by explaining
the reason of your request?'

"'In me,' said the appearance, 'you behold Francis Wilton, priest. I was
born in 1657, and, after adventures and an education with which I need
not trouble you, found myself here as chaplain to the family of the Lord
Birkenhead of the period. It chanced one day that I heard in confession,
from the lips of Lady Birkenhead, a tale so strange, moving, and, but for
the sacred circumstances of the revelation, so incredible, that my soul
had no rest for thinking thereon. At last, neglecting my vow, and
fearful that I might become forgetful of any portion of so marvellous a
narrative, I took up my pen and committed the confession to the security
of manuscript. Litera scripta manet. Scarcely had I finished my unholy
task when the sound of a distant horn told me that the hunt (to which
pleasure I w