Ghost Stories and Mysteries by Ernest Favenc

Marquis and his daughter.
    The Lady Ermetta had big feet and thick ankles, which she was frightened of showing if she ran, and the Marquis thought it beneath his dignity to go out of a walk.
    “Ermetta,” said the Marquis gravely; “we are flummoxed.”
    “Perhaps they’ll come back,” said Ermetta.
    “I’m afraid not,” said the Marquis, looking after the fast vanishing multitude.
    He was deceived, however. Nerved by despair, the three bad characters ran well, and now doubled back and came once more to the isolated rock on the sands.
    Instantly new life seemed to enter into Ermetta; she whispered something to her father, who shook his head, and said, “too late,” but suffered his daughter to lead him behind the rock.
    Breathing heavily—with their pursuers, headed by Hardpuller and Gadzooks, close upon their heels—the three bad characters approached;— they passed and made for the sea. As Gadzooks, in hot haste, pressed after them, running close by the fatal rock, a foot clad in a French kid boot, and a very substantial white-stockinged ankle, was thrust forth from behind it, right in front of him; he tripped, he fell; and the next moment the Marquis was holding him down.
    “Poetical Justice!” he cried. “Poetical Justice!” echoed Ermetta, who limped a little, for the Baron in falling had inadvertently kicked her on the shin, and she didn’t like to rub it before so many people.
    Everybody halted, glad of a spell, and the bad characters swam out to sea.
    “Where’s the Bishop?” said the Marquis.
    “Here,” cried his lordship, coming forward hot and perspiring.
    “Look sharp, or the end of the chapter will be here,” said the Marquis.
    Gadzooks was dragged to his feet, and held firmly, in spite of his struggles and protestations.
    “Quick, or we shall be too late,” reiterated the Marquis.
    “Never mind, papa, we have got him fast, and I can be married in the Epilogue.”
    “Nonsense, my child, epilogues are only to tell the reader what he knows already.”
    The Bishop gabbled over the service,—“keep-thee-only-unto-her-as-long-as-ye-both shall-live?”
    “I will!” yelled everybody, drowning the voice of the wretched Gadzooks, who said, “ I won’t .”
    Away went the Bishop again, etc, etc.
    “I will!” said Ermetta; and she meant it
    “Thank goodness!” said the Marquis; “she’s off my hands!”
    * * * * * * *
    Years have passed, and the rising tide has washed away the footsteps that were imprinted that morning on the sands of Plimlivon. But that lonely rock still holds its steadfast watch, and the shadow it casts is deeper and darker than ever. But the shadow on the heart of the stricken Gadzooks is deeper and darker still.
    EPILOGUE
    Now, during the reading of the latter portion of the foregoing story, a gleam of hope had shot across my brain. As soon, therefore, as the Spirit had finished, I proceeded to put it into practice.
    “What do you think of that!” said the Spirit.
    “I like it immensely,” I replied; “really you can’t think what a jolly year I anticipate; it will be all beer and skittles.”
    The Spirit, I thought, looked slightly crest fallen.
    “You’ve no idea,” I went on, “how dull it is up here; and now to have you to read these charming little stories to me—really, old fellow, it will be delightful.”
    “Don’t be so sure of that,” he answered. But I fancied that he seemed staggered.
    “Now,” he said, opening his book again; “for the next, one of the real old sort—“How the King got his own again.”
    “’Twas Christmas Eve, and a bitter cold one to boot. What of that? It but made the crackling log fire seem the warmer and snugger. ‘Be-shrew me!’ said mine host of the Holly Bush, as he stood with his back to it, warming his portly calves; ‘but if sad-colored garments and cropped heads are to be the fashion of the day, we shall scarce know Merry England.’”
    He had got thus far before I could well stop him; then I