13. XIII.
HOW FALCONBRIDGE HAD A STRANGE DREAM.
FALCONBRIDGE had a singular dream. He imagined
that about two hours after midnight, his
door opened; a heavy step stealthily approached
his couch, which was flooded by the pallid rays
of the great soaring moon; and a tall form bent down, and
looked long and in silence upon his face.
What the mysterious figure was like, he could not tell,
as the shoulders and head were wrapped in a heavy mantle,
completely concealing the sex and character of the visitant.
All that he plainly perceived, was a pair of burning eyes
between the folds of the mantle—dark stars, as it were,
which glittered as they shone upon him with a lurid lustre.
The figure remained thus motionless beside his couch,
lost in the deep shadow, and silently scanning the sleeper,
who was full in the moonlight, for what seemed to Falconbridge,
an interminable time. Mastered by a vague influence,
which he could not throw off, the young man lay still,
asking himself if he were really asleep and dreaming this—
or half awake, and looking upon a real form. He could not
determine the question in his mind, and remained thus, lying
supine and powerless before the vision, in the condition
of a sleep-walker, or one in a trance.
To the first sensation of surprise and vague discomfort at
the presence of the singular visitor, ere long succeeded a
deep curiosity to discover what would be the next action of
the figure. The eyes seemed to have burned down upon
his face for centuries, but at some time they must be withdrawn.
Falconbridge waited, therefore, and was not disappointed
in his expectation.
The mysterious figure slowly assumed an upright position;
a deep sigh seemed to issue from its bosom; and with head
bent over its shoulder, and drooping form, it slowly returned
toward the door through which it had entered.
The absence of the strange, glowing eyes seemed to give
the dreamer courage. No longer paralyzed, as it were, by
the magnetic glance, Falconbridge started from his couch,
and grasping his sword, which lay upon the table, near his
bed, bounded to the door.
He thought he saw it open and close upon the figure.
His sword pierced the solid wood—the clash echoing
through the mansion with a strange, weird sound.
Falconbridge tore open the door, and issued forth upon
the landing of the staircase. Nothing was to be seen. The
pale moonlight slept upon the rude banisters, and the
oaken floor, but no form was visible.
He rubbed his eyes, and returning to the apartment,
wrenched his sword from the wood in which the point had
been buried.
Had he dreamed? Could it really have been his fancy?
“I swear I saw it!” he muttered, wiping the cold perspiration
from his brow, and returning to his couch; “it bent
over me, and looked into my face!”
With these words he deposited his sword again upon the table,
and lay down. He remained for an hour or more awake,
watching for the return of the figure, but nothing disturbed
the lonely silence. At last he fell asleep, murmuring; and
slumbered undisturbed, until the sunlight streamed into his
chamber through the eastern window, and waked him.
