midnight
Some volumes of ghost stories , translated from the German into French , fell into our hands . There was the History of the Inconstant Lover , who , when he thought to clasp the bride to whom he had pledged his vows , found himself in the arms of the pale ghost of her whom he had deserted . There was the tale of the sinful founder of his race , whose miserable doom it was to bestow the kiss of death on all the younger sons of his fated house , just when they reached the age of promise . His gigantic , shadowy form , clothed like the ghost in Hamlet , in complete armour , but with the beaver up , was seen at midnight , by the moon 's fitful beams , to advance slowly along the gloomy avenue . The shape was lost beneath the shadow of the castle walls ; but soon a gate swung back , a step was heard , the door of the chamber opened , and he advanced to the couch of the blooming youths , cradled in healthy sleep . Eternal sorrow sat upon his face as he bent down and kissed the forehead of the boys , who from that hour withered like flowers snapt upon the stalk . I have not seen these stories since then ; but their incidents are as fresh in my mind as if I had read them yesterday .