Then my eyes
encountered a spectacle whose horror chilled my blood, and haunts me
to this day in my dreams. About twelve feet above the general level
of the sand, buried to the breast behind a mass of green sward fallen
from the graveyard, stood the dead body of Wynne, amid a confused
heap of earth, gravestones, trees, shrubs, bones, and shattered
coffins. Bolt upright it stood, staring with horribly distorted
features, as in terror, the crown of the head smashed by a fallen
gravestone. Upon his breast glittered the rubies and diamonds and
beryls of the cross, sparkling in the light of the moon, and seeming
to be endowed with conscious life. It was evident that he had, while
groping his way out of the crypt, slung the cross around his neck, in
order to free his hands. I shudder as I recall the spectacle. The
sight would have struck Winifred dead, or sent her raving mad, on the
spot; but she had not turned the corner, and I had just time to wheel
sharply round, and thrust my body between her and the spectacle. The
dog saw it, and, foaming with terror, pointed at it.
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