With steps more faltering¹ and unsteady than those with which she had approached the room, the child withdrew from the door, and groped her way back to her own chamber². The terror she had lately felt was nothing compared with that which now oppressed her. No strange robber, no treacherous³ host conniving⁴ at the plunder⁵ of his guests, or stealing to their beds to kill them in their sleep, no nightly prowler, however terrible and cruel, could have awakened⁶ in her bosom⁷ half the dread⁸ which the recognition of her silent visitor inspired. The grey-headed old man gliding⁹ like a ghost into her room and acting¹⁰ the thief while he supposed her fast asleep, then bearing off his prize and hanging over it with the ghastly exultation¹¹ she had witnessed, was worse — immeasurably worse, and far more dreadful, for the moment, to reflect upon — than anything her wildest fancy could have suggested. If he should return — there was no lock or bolt upon the door, and if, distrustful of having left some money yet behind, he should come back to seek for more — a vague awe¹² and horror surrounded the idea of his slinking in again with stealthy tread, and turning his face toward the empty bed, while she shrank down close at his feet to avoid his touch, which was almost insupportable. She sat and listened. Hark! A footstep on the stairs, and now the door was slowly opening. It was but imagination, yet imagination had all the terrors of reality;

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