There was something awful, something inhuman, in that fiendish, long-drawn shriek.
Brossard's arm fell to his side paralyzed with fear, as that same hoarse voice cried, solemnly: "Brossard, beware! Beware!" But worse than that voice of sepulchral warning was the white-sheeted figure, coming towards him with a wavering, ghostly motion, fire shooting from the demon-like eyes, and flaming from the hideous mouth.
Brossard sank on his knees in a shivering heap, and began crossing himself.

His hair was upright with horror, and his tongue stiff.

Jules knew who it was that danced around them in such giddy circles, first darting towards them with threatening gestures, and then gliding back to utter one of those awful, sickening wails.

He knew that under that fiery head and wrapped in that spectral dress was his "fearless friend," who, according to promise, had hastened her aid to lend; nevertheless, he was afraid of her himself.

He had never imagined that anything could look so terrifying.
The wail reached Henri's ears and aroused his curiosity.