ned my early days, and carve out my destiny in a very
different path from what I once intended.

These were my last waking thoughts, as my head sank on my arm, and I
fell into a deep sleep. The falling of a log from the fire awoke me
suddenly. I rubbed my eyes, and for a second or two could not remember
where I was. At length I became clearer in mind, and looking at my
watch, perceived it was but two o'clock. As the flame of the replenished
fire threw its light through the room, I remarked that the door into
the granary stood ajar. This struck me as strange. I thought I could
remember shutting it before I went to sleep. Yes,--I recollected
perfectly placing a chair against it, as the latch was bad, and a
draught of cold air came in that way; and now the chair was pushed back
into the room, and the door lay open. A vague feeling, half suspicion,
half curiosity, kept me thinking of the circumstance, when by
chance--the merest chance--my eyes fell upon the table where I had left
my sabre and my pistols. What was my amazement to find that one of the
latter--that which lay nearest the door--was missing!

In an instant I was on my feet. Nothing can combat drowsiness like the
sense of fear; and I became perfectly awake in a moment. Examining the
room with caution, I found everything in the same state as I had left
it, save the door and the missing pistol. The granary alone, then, could
be the shelter of the invader, whoever he might be. What was to be done?
I was totally unprovided with light, save what the fire afforded; and
even were it otherwise, I should expose myself by carrying one, long
before I could hope to detect a concealed enemy. The best plan I could
hit upon seemed to secure the door once more; and then, placing myself
in such a position as not to be commanded by it again, to wait for
morning patiently. This then, I did at once; and having examined my
remaining pistol, and found the charge and priming all safe, I drew
my sabre, and sat down between the door and the window, but so that it
should open against me.

Few sensations are more acutely painful than the exercise of the hearing
when pushed to intensity. The unceasing effort to catch the slightest
sound soon becomes fatigue, and as the organ grows weary, the mental
anxiety grows more acute; and then begins a struggle between the failing
sense and the excited brain. The spectral images of the eye in fever are
not one half so terrible as the strange discorda