Glam's Castle by Eliott O'Donnell. Of all the hauntings in Scotland, none has
gained such widespread notoriety as the hauntings of Glam's Castle, the seat of the
Earl of Strathmore and king Horn in Forforshire. Part of the castle, that
part which is the more frequently haunted, is of ancient, though uncertain date,
and if there is any truth in the tradition that Duncan was murdered there
by Macbeth must at any rate have been in existence at the commencement of the
eleventh century. Of course, extra buildings have from time to time been added
and renovations made, but the original structure remains pretty nearly the same as it
always has been, and is included in a square tower that occupies a central
position and commands a complete view of the entire castle. Within this tower,
the walls of which are fifteen feet thick, there is a room hidden in
some unsuspected quarter that contains a secret the keynote to one at least of the
hauntings, which is known only to the Earl his heir on the attainment of
his twenty first birthday. In the factor of the estate, in all probability,
the mystery attached to this room would challenge but little attention were it not
for the fact that unearthly noises, which at the time were supposed to proceed
from this chamber, have been heard by various visitors sleeping in the square tower.
The following experience is said to have happened to a lady named Bond.
I appended, more or less in her own words, it is a good
many years since I stared at GLAMs. I was, in fact but little
more than a child, and had only just gone through my first season in
town. But though young, I was neither nervous nor imaginative, I was
inclined to be what is termed stolid, that is to say, extremely matter
of fact and practical. Indeed, when my friends exclaimed, you don't mean
to say you're going to stay in GLAMs, don't you know it's haunted,
I burst out laughing. Haunted, I said, how ridiculous. There are
no such things as ghosts. One might as well believe in fairies. Of
course, I did not go to GLAMs alone. My mother and sister were
with me. But whereas they slept in the more modern part of the Castle.
I was, at my own request, apportioned a room in the Square
Tower. I cannot say that my choice had anything to do with the secret
chamber that, in the alleged mystery had been dinned into my ears so often
that I had grown thoroughly sick of the whole thing. No, I wanted
to sleep in the Square Tower for quite a different reason, a reason of
my own I kept in aviary. The tower was old, and I naturally
hoped its walls would be covered with ivy and teeming with bird nests, of
which I might be able to reach. And I am ashamed to say,
plunder from my window. Alas for my expectations, although the Square Tower was
so ancient that in some places it was actually crumbling away. Not the sign
of a leaf, not the vestige of a bird's nest, could I see
anywhere. The walls were abominably brutally bare. However, it was not long
before my disappointment gave way to delight. For the air that blew in through
the open window was so sweet, so richly scented with heather and honeysuckle,
and the view of the broad, sweeping, thickly wooded grounds so indescribably charming,
that despite my inartistic and unpoetical nature, I was entranced, entranced as
I had never been before and never have been since. Ghosts. I said
to myself, Ghosts, how absurd, how preposterously absurd, Such an adorable
spot as this can only harbor sunshine and flowers. I well remember, too,
for as I have already said, I was not poetical how much I
enjoyed my first dinner at Clams. The long journey and keen mountain air had
made me hungry, and I thought I had never tasted such delicious food,
such ideal salmon from the esk, and such heavenly fruit. But I must
tell you that although I ate heartily as a healthy girl should, by the
time I went to bed, I had thoroughly digested my mail, and was
in fact quite ready to partake of a few oatmeal biscuits I found in my
dressing case and remembered having bought at Perth. It was about eleven o'clock when
my maid left me, and I sat for some minutes, wrapped in my
dressing gown before the open window. The night was very still, and,
save for an occasional rustle of the wind and the distant tree tops, the
hooting of an owl, the melancholy cry of a piot, and the hoarse
barking of a dog. The silence was undisturbed. The interior of my room
was in nearly every particular modern. The furniture was not old. There were
no grim carvings, no grotesquely fashioned tapestries on the walls, no dark cupboards,
no gloomy corners. All was cozy and cheerful, And when I got
into bed, no thought of bogel or mystery entered my mind. In a
few minutes I was asleep, and for some time there was nothing but a
blank, a blank in which all identity was annihilated. Then suddenly I found
myself in an oddly shaped room, with a lofty ceiling and a window situated
at so great a distance from the black oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible
from within. Feeble gleams of phosphorent light made their way through the narrow panes
and served to render distinct the more prominent objects around, But my eyes struggled
in vain to reach the remoter angles of the wall, one of which inspired
me with terror, such as I had never felt before. The walls were
covered with heavy draperies that were sufficient in themselves to preclude the possibility of any
save the loudest of sounds, penetrating without the furniture, if such one could
call it, puzzled me. It seemed more fitted for the cell of a
prison or lunatic asylum, or even for a kennel, than for an ordinary
dwelling room. I could see no chair, only a coarse deal table,
a straw mattress, and a kind of trough. An air of irredeemable gloom
and horror hung over and pervaded everything. As I stood there, I felt
I was waiting for something, something that was concealed in the corner of the
room I dreaded. I tried to reason with myself, to assure myself that
there was nothing there that could hurt me, nothing that could even terrify me.
But my efforts were in vain. My fears grew. Had I had
some definite knowledge as to the cause of my alarm, I should not have
suffered so much. But it was my ignorance of what was there, of
what I feared, that made my terror so poignant. Each second saw the
agony of my suspense increase. I dared not move, I hardly dare breathe,
and I dreaded lest the violent pulsation of my heart should attract the attention
of the unknown presence and precipitate its coming out. Yet, despite the perturbation
of my mind, I caught myself analyzing my feelings. It was not danger
I abhorred so much as its absolute effect fright. I shuddered at the bare
thought of what result the most trivial incident, the creaking of a board,
ticking of a beetle, or hooting of an owl, might have on the
intolerable agitation of my soul. In this unnerved and pitiable condition, I felt
that the periode was bound to come sooner or later, when I should have
to abandon life and raison together in the most desperate of struggles with fear at
length, something moved. An icy chill ran through my frame, and the
horror of my anticipations immediately reached its culminating point. The presence was about to
reveal itself. The gentle rubbing of a soft body in the floor, the
crack of a bony joint, breathing another crack, And then was it my
own excited imagination, or the disturbing influence of the atmosphere, or the uncertain
twilight of the chamber that produced before me, in the stadian darkness of the
recess, the facilitating and indistinct outline of something luminous and horrid. I would
gladly have risked futurity to have looked elsewhere. I could not. My eyes
were fixed. I was compelled to gaze steadily in front of me, slowly,
very slowly. The thing, whatever it was, took shape, legs
crooked, misshapen human legs, a body tawny and hunged, arms long and
spidery, with crooked, knotted fingers. A head large and beasteel and covered
with a tangled mass of gray hair that hung around its protruding forehead, and
pointed airs in ghastly mockery of curls. A face and hearin was the realization
of all my direst expectations. A face white and staring, pig like information,
malevolent in expression, a hellish combination of all things foul in animal,
and yet withal not without a touch of pathos. As I stared at it
aghast, it reared itself on its haunches. After the manner of an ape,
and layered piteously at me, then shuffling forward, it rolled over and
lay sprawled out like some ungainly turtle, and wallowed as for warmth in the
cold gray beams of early dawn. At this juncture the handle of the chamber
door turned, some one entered. There was a loud cry, and I
awoke, awoke to find the whole tower, walls and rafters, ringing with
the most appalling screams I have ever heard, screams of something or of some
one, for there was in them a strong element of what was human as
well as animal, in the great distress. Wondering what it meant, and
more than ever terrified, I sat up in bed and listened, listened whilst
a conviction, the result of intuition, suggestion, or what you will by
a conviction, all the same forced me to associate the sounds with a thing
in my dream, and I associate them still. It was, I think,
in the same year, in the year that the foregoing account was narrated
to me, that I heard another story of the huntings at GLAMs, a
story in connection with a lady whom I will call Miss mc guinney. I
append her experience as nearly as possible, as she has stated to have told
it. I seldom talk about my adventure, Miss mc guinney announced, because
so many people ridicule the superphysical and laugh at the mere mention of ghosts.
I own I did the same myself till I stayed at Glam's. But a
week there quite cured me of skepticism, and I came away a confirmed believer.
The incident occurred nearly twenty years ago, shortly after my return from India,
where my father was then stationed. It was years since I had been
to Scotland. Indeed, I had only once crossed the border, and that
when I was a babe. Consequently, I was delighted to receive an invitation
to spend a few weeks in the land of my birth. I went to
Edinburgh first, I was born in Drumshay Gardens, and thence to GLAMs.
It was late in the autumn, the weather was intensely cold, and I
arrived at the castle in a blizzard. Indeed, I do not recollect ever
having been out in such a frightful storm. It was as much as the
horses could do to make headway, and when we reached the castle, we
found a crowd of anxious faces eagerly awaiting us in the hall chilled. I
was chilled to the bone, and I thought I never should thaw. But
the huge fires and bright and cozy atmosphere of the rooms for the interior of
GLAMs was modernized throughout soon set me right, and by tea time I felt
nicely warm and comfortable. My bedroom was in the oldest part of the castle,
the square tower, But although I had been worn by some of the
guests that it might be haunted, I can assure you that when I went
to bed, no subject was farther from my thoughts than the subject of ghosts.
I returned to my room at about half past eleven. The storm was
then at its height, all with babel and confusion, impenetrable darkness mingled with
the wildest roaring and shrieking, and when I peeped through my casement window I
could see nothing. Panes were shrouded in snow, snow which was incessantly dashed
against them with cyclonic fury. I fixed a comb in the window frame so
as not to be kept awake by the constant jarring, and with the caution
characteristic of my sex, looked into the wardrobe and under the bed for burglars,
though Heaven knows what I should have done had I found one. There,
placed a candlestick and matchbox on the table by my bedside, lest the
roof or window should be blown in during the night, or any other catastrophe
happen. And after all these preparations got into bed. At this period of
my life, I was of sounds, and, being somewhat unusually tired after
my journey, I was soon in a dreamless slumber. What awoke me I
cannot say, but I came to myself with a violent start, such as
might have been occasioned by a loud noise. Indeed, that was at first
my impression, and I strained my ears to try and ascertain the cause of
it. All was, however, silent. The storm had abated, and
the castle and grounds were wrapped in an almost preternatural hush. The sky had
cleared, and the room was partially illuminated by a broad stream of silvery light
that filtered softly in through the white and tightly drawn blinds. A feeling that
there was something unnatural in the air, that the stillness was but the prelude
to some strange and startling event gradually came over me. I strove to reason
with myself, to argue that the failing was wholly due to the novelty of
my surroundings. But my efforts were fruitless, and soon there stole upon me
a sensation to which I had been hitherto an utter stranger. I became afraid.
An irrepressible tremor pervaded my frame, my teeth chattered, my blood froze.
Obeying an impulse, an impulse I could not resist, and lifted myself
up from the pillows, and peering fearfully into the shadowy glows, and laid
directly in front of me, listened. Why I listened, I do not
know, saving that an instinctive spirit prompted me. At first I could hear
nothing, and then from a direction I could not divine, there came a
noise, lo distinct, uninterpretive. It was repeated in rapid succession, and
speedily construed itself into the sound of mailed footsteps racing up the long flight of
stairs at the end of the corridor leading to my room. Dreading to think
what it might be, and seized with a wild sentiment of self preservation.
I made frantic endeavors to get out of bed and barricade my door. My
limbs, however, refused to move. I was paralyzed. Nearer and nearer
drew the sounds, and I could at length distinguish with a clearness that petrified
my very soul, the banging and clanging of sword scabbards, and the panting
and gasping of men sore pressed in a wild and desperate race. And then
the meaning of it all came to me with hideous abruptness. It was a
case of pursued and pursuing. The race was for life outside my door.
The fugitive halted, and from the noise he made in trying to draw his
breath, I knew he was dead beat. His antagonist, however, gave
him but scant time for recovery. Bounding at him with prodigious leaps, he
struck him a blow that sent him rooling with such tremendous force against the door.
With the panels, although composed of the stoutest oak, quivered and strained
like flimsy matchboard. The blow was repeated. The cry that rose in the
victim's throat was converted into an abortive, gurgling groan, and I heard the
ponderous battle axe carve its way through helmet, bone and brain. A moment
later came the sound of slithering armor, and the corpse, slipping sideways,
toppled to the ground with a sonorous clang. A silence too awful for words.
Now ensued. Having finished his hideous handiwork, the murderer was quietly deliberating
what to do next, which my dreader of attracting his attention was so great
that I scarcely dare breath. This intolerable state of things had already lasted for
what seemed to me a lifetime. When glancing involuntarily at the floor, I
saw a stream of dark looking fluid, lazily lapping its way to me from
the direction of the door. Another moment and it would reach my shoes.
In my dismay, I shrieked aloud. There was a sudden stir without a
significant clatter of steel, and the next moment, despite the fact that it
was locked, the door slowly opened. The limits of my endurance had now
happily been reached. The overtaxed valves of my heart could stand no more.
I fainted on my awakening to consciousness, it was morning, and the welcome
sun rays revealed no evidences of the distressing drama I own. I had a
hard tussle before I could make up my mind to spend another night in that
room, and my feelings as I shut the door and my retreating maid and
prepared to grin to bed were nut the most Inmabel. But nothing happened,
nor did I again experience anything of the sort till the evening before I left.
I had lain down all the afternoon, for I was tired after a
long morning's tramp on the moors, a thing I daily love, and I
was thinking it was about time to get up, when a dark shadow suddenly
fell across my face. I looked up hastily, and there standing by my
bedside and bending over me with a gigantic figure in bright armor. Its visor
was up, and what I saw within the cask is stamped forever on my
memory. It was the face of the dead, the long since dead,
with the expression the subtly hellish expression of the living. As I gazed helplessly
at it, it bent lower. I threw up my hands to ward it
off. There was a loud rap at the door, and as my maid
softly entered to tell me tea was ready, it vanished. The third account
of the Glamis hauntings was told me as long ago as the summer of eighteen
ninety three. I was traveling by rail from Perth to Glasgow, and the
only other occupant of my compartment was an elderly gentleman, who, from his
general air and appearance, might have been a dominie or member of some other
learned profession. I can see him in my mind's eye now, a tall,
thin man with a premature stoop. He had white hair which was brushed
forward down either side of his head in such a manner as suggested awake,
bushy eyebrows, dark piercing eyes, and a stern, though somewhat sad mouth.
His features were fine and scholarly. He was clean shaven. There was
something about him, something that marked him from the general horde, something that
attracted me, and I began chatting with him soon after we left Perth.
In the course of a conversation that was at all events interesting to me,
I adroitly managed to introduce the subject of ghosts. Then, as ever uppermost
in my thoughts. Well, he said I can tell you of something rather
extraordinary that my mother used to say happened to a friend of hers at GLAMs.
I have no doubt you are well acquainted with the hackneyed stories in connection
with the hauntings at the castle, for example Earl Beardy playing cards with the
Devil and the weeping Woman without hands or tongue. You can read about them
in scores of books and magazines. But what befel my mother's friend, whom
I will call Missus Gibbons, for I have forgotten her proper name, was
apparently of a novel nature. The affair happened shortly before Missus Gibbons died,
and I always thought that what took place might have been in some way connected
with her death. She had driven over to the castle one day during the
absence of the owner, to see her cousin, who was in the employ
of the Earl and Countess. Never having been at GLAMs before, but having
heard so much about it, Missus Gibbins was not a little curious to see
that part of the building called the Square Tower, that bore the reputation of
being haunted. Tactfully biding an opportunity, she sounded her relative on the subject,
and was laughingly informed that she might go anywhere about the place she pleased,
saving to one spot, namely Bluebeard's chamber, and there she could certainly
never succeed in poking her nose, as its locality was known only to three
people, all of whom were pledged never to reveal it. At the commencement
of her tour of inspection, Missus Gibbons was disappointed. She was disappointed in
the tower. She had expected to see a gaunt, grim place, crumbling
to pieces with age, full of blood curdling spiral staircases and deep, dark
dungeons, whereas everything was the reverse. The walls were an excellent state of
preservation, absolutely intact, the rooms bright and cheerful and equipped in the most
modern style. There were no dungeons, at least none on view, and
the passages and staircases were suggestive of nothing more alarming than bats. She was
accompanied for some time by her relative, but on the latter being called away,
Missus Gibbons continued her rambles alone. She had explored the lower premises and
was leisurely examining a handsomely furnished apartment on the top floor. When in crossing
from one side of the room to the other, she ran into something.
She looked down nothing was to be seen. Amazed beyond description, she thrust
out her hands and they alighted on an object which she had little difficulty in
identifying. It was an enormous cask or barrel, lying in a horizontal position.
She bent down close to where she felt it, but she could see
nothing, nothing but the well polished boards of the floor. To make sure
again that the barrel was there, she gave a little kick and drew back
her foot with a cry of pain. She was not afraid. The sunshine
in the room forbade fear, only exasperated. She was certain a barrel was
there, that it was objective, and she was angry with herself for not
seeing it. She wondered if she were going blind, but the fact that
other objects in the room were plainly visible to her discountenanced such an idea.
For some minutes, she poked and jabbed at the thing, and then seized
with sudden and uncontrollable panic. She turned round and fled, and as she
tore out of the room, along the passage and down the seemingly interminable flight,
of stairs. She heard the barrel behind her in close pursuit bump bump,
bump. At the foot of the staircase, Missus Gibbins met her cousin,
and as she clutched the ladder for support, the barrel shot past her,
still continuing its descent bump bump, bump, though the steps as far
as you could see, had ended, till the sounds gradually dwindled away in
the far distance. Whilst the manifestations lasted. Neither Missus Gibbons nor her cousin
spoke, but the latter, as soon as the sounds had ceased, dragged
Missus Gibbons away, and, in a voice shaking with terror, cried,
quick, quick, don't for heaven's sake look around. Worse as yet to
come. And pulling Missus Gibbons along in breathless haste, she unceremoniously hustled her
out of the tower. That was no barrel. Missus gibbons cousin subsequently remarked,
by way of explanation, I saw it, I have seen it before,
and don't ask me to describe it. I dare not, I dare
not even think of it. Whenever it appears a certain thing happens shortly afterwards.
Don't don't on any account say a word about it to anyone here.
And missus Gibbons, my mother told me, came away from GLAMs a thousand
times more curious than she was when she went. The last story I have
to relate is one I heard many years ago when I was staying near bull
Morrow, and gentlemen named Vance, with strong antiquarian tastes, was staying at
an inn near the Strathmore estate and roaming abroad. One afternoon, in a
fit of absent mindedness, entered the castles. It so happened, fortunately for
him, that the family were away, and he encountered no one more formidable
than a man he took to be a gardener, an uncouth looking fellow with
a huge head covered with a mass of red hair, hawklike features, and
high cheekbones, high even for a Scott. Struck with the appearance of the
individual, mister Van spoke, and, finding him wonderfully civil, asked whether
by any chance he ever came across any fossils when digging in the gardens,
add any keen the meaning of fossils, The man replied, what are they?
Mister Vance, explained, and a look of cunning gradually pervaded the fellow's
features. No, he said, I've never found any of those things.
But if you'll give me your word to say nothing about it, I'll show
you something I once dug up over yonder by the square tower. Do you
mean the Haunted Tower, the tower that is supposed to contain the secret room,
mister Vance exclaimed. An extraordinary expression, an expression such as mister Vans
found it impossible to analyze, came into the man's eyes. Yes, that's
it, he nodded, what people call and rightly call the Haunted Tower.
I got it from there. But don't you say nought about it. Mister
Vance, who's curiosity was roused, promised, and the man, politely requesting
him to follow, led the way to a cottage that stood nearby in the
heart of a gloomy wood. To mister Vance's astonishment, the treasure proved to
be the skeleton of a hand, a hand with abnormally large knuckles and the
first joint of both fingers and thumb much shorter than the others. It was
the most extraordinarily shaped hand mister Vance had ever seen, and he did not
know in the least how to classify it. It repelled yet interested him,
and he eventually offered the man a good sum to allow him to keep it.
To his astonishment, that money was refused. You may have the thing
and welcome, the fellow said, Only I advise you not to look at
it late at night or just before getting into bed. If you do,
you may have bad dreams. I will take my chance of that, mister
Vance laughed, you see, being a hard headed cockney, I am not
superstitious. It is only you highlanders and your first cousin of the Irish who
believed nowadays in bogels, omens and such like. And packing the hand carefully
in his knapsack, mister Vance bid the strange looking creature good morning and went
on his way. For the rest of the day, the hand was uppermost
in his thoughts. Nothing had ever fascinated him so much. He sat pondering
over it the whole evening, and the bedtime found him still examining it.
Examining it upstairs in his room by candle light, he had a hazy recollection
that some clock had struck twelve, and he was beginning to feel that it
was about time to retire. When in the mirror opposite him, he caught
sight of the door. It was, by jove, that's odd, he
said to himself, I could have sworn I shut and bolted it. To
make sure. He turned round. The door was closed. An optical delusion,
he murmured, I will try again. He looked into the mirror the
door reflected in it was open. Utterly. At a loss to know how
to explain the phenomenon, he leaned forward in his seat to examine the glass
more carefully, and as he did so, he gave a start. On
the threshold of the doorway was a shadow, black and bulbous. A cold
shiver ran down mister Vans's spine, and just for a moment he felt afraid,
terribly afraid, But he quickly composed himself. It was nothing but an
illusion. There was no shadow there in reality. He had only to turn
round and the thing would be gone. It was amusing, entertaining. He
would wait and see what happened. The shadow moved, It moved slowly through
the air, like some huge spider or odd shaped bird. He would not
acknowledge that there was anything sinister about it, only something droll, excruciatingly droll.
Yet it did not make him laugh. When it had drawn a little
nearer, he tried to diagnose it, to discover its material counterpart in one
of the objects around him, But he was obliged to acknowledge his attempts were
failures. There was nothing in the room in the least degree like it.
A vague feeling of uneasiness gradually crept over him. Was the thing, the
shadow of something with which he was familiar but couldn't just then recall to mind.
Something he feared, something that was sinister. He struggled against the idea.
He dismissed it as absurd, but it returned, returned, and took
deeper root. As the shadow drew nearer, he wished the house was not
quite so silent, that he could hear some indication of life, anything,
anything for companionship, and to rid him of oppressive, the very oppressive sense
of loneliness and isolation. Again, a frill of terror ran through him.
Look here, he exclaimed aloud, glad to hear the sound of his own
voice. Look here. If this goes on much longer, I shall begin
to think I'm going mad. I have had enough, and more than enough
of magic mirrors for one night. It's high time I got into bed.
He strove to rise from his chair, to move. He was unable to
do either. Some strange tyrannical force held him a prisoner. A change now
took place in the shadow, the blurred, dissipated, and the clearly defined
outlines of an object, An object that made mister Vans perfectly sick with apprehension,
slowly disclosed themselves. His suspicions were verified. It was the hand,
the hand, no longer skeleton but covered with green, moldering flesh, Feeling
its way slyly and stealthily towards him, towards the back of his chair.
He noted the murderous twitching of its short, flat fingertips, the monstrous muscles
of its hideous thumb, and the great clumsy hollows of its clammy pam.
It closed in upon him, Its cold, slimy, detestable skin touched his
coat, his shoulder, his neck, his head. It pressed him down,
squashed suffocated him. He saw it all in the glass, and then
an extraordinary thing happened. Mister Vance certainly became animated. He got up and
peeped furtively round chairs, bed wardrobe had all disappeared, so had the bedroom,
and he found himself in a small, bare, comfortless, queerly constructed
apartment, without a door, and with only a narrow slit of a window
somewhere near the ceiling. He had in one of his hands a knife with
a long, keen blade, and his whole mind was bent on murder.
Creeping stealthily forward, he approached a corner of the room, where he now
saw for the first time a mattress, a mattress on which lay a huddled
up for him. What the thing was, whether human or animal, mister
Advance did not know, did not care. All he felt was that it
was there for him to kill. That he loathed and hated it, hated
it with a hatred such as nothing else could have produced. Tiptoeing gently out
to it, he bent down, and, lifting his knife high above his
head, plunged it into the thing's body with all the force he could command.
He recrossed the room and found himself once more in his apartment. At
the inn, he looked for the skeleton hand. It was not where he
had left it. It had vanished. Then he glanced at the mirror,
and on its brilliantly polished surface, saw not his own face, but the
face of the gardener, the man who had given him the hand. Features,
color, hair, all all were identical, wonderfully hideously identical, And
as the eyes met his they smiled devilishly. Early the next day mister Van
set out for the spinning and cottage. They were not to be found.
Nobody had ever heard of them. He continued his travels, and some months
later, at a lone collection of pictures in a gallery in Edinburgh, he
came to an abrupt, a very abrupt halt, before the portrait of a
gentleman in ancient costume. The face seemed strangely familiar. The huge head with
thick red hair, the hawk like features, the thin and tightly compressed lips.
Then in a trice, it all came back to him. The face
he looked at was that of the uncouth gardener, the man who had given
him the hand. And to clinch the matter, the eyes leered end of
Glam's Castle,