To reach the place, however, I had to turn a corner, and on doing so I saw good reason, as I thought, for not carrying out my intention at this especial time.
Some man--I could not recognise him from where I stood--had forestalled me.

Though the night was a dark one, sufficient light shone from the scattered lamps on the opposite side of the way for me to discern his intent figure, crouching against the iron bars and gazing, with an intentness which made him entirely oblivious of my presence, at the very plot--and on the very grave--which had been the end of my own pilgrimage.
So motionless he stood, and so motionless I myself became at this unexpected and significant sight, that I presently imagined I could hear his sighs in the dread quiet into which the whole scene had sunk.
Grief, deeper than mine, spoke in those labouring breaths.

Adelaide was mourned by some one as I, for all my remorse, could never mourn her.
_And I did not know the man_.
Was not this strange enough to rouse my wonder?
I thought so, and was on the point of satisfying this wonder by a quick advance upon this stranger, when there happened an uncanny thing, which held me in check from sheer astonishment.

I was so placed, in reference to one of the street lamps I have already mentioned, that my shadow fell before me plainly along the snow.

This had not attracted my attention until, at the point of moving, I cast my eyes down and saw two shadows where only one should be.
As I had heard no one behind me, and had supposed myself entirely alone with the man absorbed in contemplation of Adelaide's grave, I experienced a curious sensation which, without being fear, held me still for a moment, with my eyes on this second shadow.