CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE THUNDER-STORM—THE EBONY STICK—THE UNSEEN VISITANT—TERROR.
At length the uproar in Sir Richard’s room died away. The hoarse voice in furious soliloquy, and the rapid tread as he paced the floor, were no longer audible. In their stead was heard alone the stormy wind rushing and yelling through the old trees, and at intervals the deep volleying thunder. In the midst of this hubbub the Italian rubbed his hands, tripped lightly up and down his room, placed his ear at the keyhole, and chuckled and rubbed his hands again in a paroxysm of glee—now and again venting his gratification in brief ejaculations of intense delight—the very incarnation of the spirit of mischief.
The sounds in Sir Richard’s room had ceased for two hours or more; and the piping wind and the deep-mouthe
