L, And I Fell Senseless. 'When I Recovered Consciousness, It Was Broad Day, And I Found Myself In A Small Chamber, Attended By The Warder And The Hermit. The Former Told Me That On The Previous Night, He Had Awakened Long After The Midnight Hour, And Perceiving That I Had Not Come To His Chamber, He Had Furnished Himself With A Vase Of Holy Water, And Set Out To Seek Me. He Found Me Stretched Senseless On The Pavement Of The Armory, And Bore Me To This Room. I Spoke Of My Wound, And Of The Quantity Of Blood That I Had Lost. He Shook His Head, And Knew Nothing About It; And To My Surprise, On Examination, I Found Myself Perfectly Sound And Unharmed. The Wound And Blood, Therefore, Had Been All Delusion. Neither The Warder Nor The Hermit Put Any Questions To Me, But Advised Me To Leave The Castle As Soon As Possible. I Lost No Time In Complying With Their Counsel, And Felt My Heart Relieved From An Oppressive Weight, As I Left The Gloomy And Fate-Bound Battlements Of T'Tefoulques Behind Me. 'I Arrived At Bayonne, On My Way To Spain, On The Following Friday. At Midnight I Was Startled From My Sleep, As I Had Formerly Been; But It Was No Longer By The Vision Of The Dying Commander. It Was Old Foulques Taillefer Who Stood Before Me, Armed Cap-'-Pie, And Presenting The Point Of His Sword. I Made The Sign Of The Cross, And The Spectre Vanished, But I Received The Same Red-Hot Thrust In The Heart Which I Had Felt In The Armory, And I Seemed To Be Bathed In Blood. I Would Have Called Out, Or Have Arisen From My Bed And Gone In Quest Of Succor, But I Could Neither Speak Nor Stir. This Agony Endured Until The Crowing Of The Cock, When I Fell Asleep Again; But The Next Day I Was Ill, And In A Most Pitiable State. I Have Continued To Be Harassed By The Same Vision Every Friday Night; No Acts Of Penitence And Devotion Have Been Able To Relieve Me From It; And It Is Only A Lingering Hope In Divine Mercy, That Sustains Me, And Enables Me To Support So Lamentable A Visitation.' - - - - - - - The Grand Prior Of Minorca Wasted Gradually Away Under This Constant Remorse Of Conscience, And This Horrible Incubus. He Died Some Time After Having Revealed The Preceding Particulars Of His Case, Evidently The Victim Of A Diseased Imagination. The Above Relation Has Been Rendered, In Many Parts Literally, From The French Memoir, In Which It Is Given As A True Story: If So, It Is One Of Those Instances In Which Truth Is More Romantic Than Fiction.