is lips, as if to require
silence. The two persons advanced until they reached a small brook
that babbled down a ravine, and fell into the river. Suddenly
something glittered in the air; the figures vanished; and upon looking
at the brook Holden beheld, to his horror, that it was red like blood.
He turned in amazement to his guide, who made no reply to the look of
inquiry, unless the word "Friday," which he uttered in the same deep
tone, can be so considered.

Holden awoke, and the sweat was standing in great drops on his
forehead. As his senses and recollection were gradually returning, he
directed his eyes towards the place where the portrait hung, half in
doubt whether he should see it again. The beams of the moon no longer
played upon it, but there was sufficient light in the room to enable
him to distinguish the features which now, more and more distinctly
emerged to sight. The hollow eyes were fixed on his, and the word
"Friday" seemed still quivering on the lips.

Holden lay and thought over his dream. With the young and imaginative,
dreams are not uncommon, but with the advanced in life they are
usually unfrequent. As the fancy decays,--as the gay illusions that
brightened our youth disappear, to give place to realities,--as the
blood that once rushed hurriedly, circulates languidly--farewell to
the visions that in storm or sunshine flitted around our pillows.

It cannot, indeed, be said that Holden never had dreams. The excitable
temperament of the man would forbid the supposition, but, even with
him, they were uncommon. He turned the one he had just had over and
over again, in his mind; but, reflect upon it as he pleased, he could
make nothing out of it, and, at last, with a sense of dissatisfaction
and endeavoring to divert his mind from thoughts that banished sleep,
he forgot himself again.

His slumbers were broken and harassed throughout the night, with
horrid dreams and vague anticipations of further evil. At one time he
was at his cabin, and his son lay bleeding in his arms, pierced by the
bullet of Ohquamehud. At another, Faith was drowning, and stretching
out her hands to him for succor, and as he attempted to hasten to her
assistance, her father interfered and held him violently back. And at
another, he was falling from an immeasurable height, with the grip of
the Indian at his throat. Down--down he fell, countless miles, through
a roaring chaos, trying to save himself from strangulation, until,