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, just as he was about to be dashed to pieces against a rock, he awoke sore and feverish.

The sun was already some distance above the horizon as Holden rose from his troubled slumbers.  The cool air of morning flowed with a refreshing sweetness through the open window, and the birds were singing in the branches of the large elm.  With a feeling of welcome he beheld the grateful light.  He endeavored to recall and reduce to some coherency the wild images of his dreams, but all was confusion, which became the more bewildering, the longer he dwelt upon them, and the more he strove to untangle the twisted skein.  All that he could now distinctly remember, were the place whither he had been led, and the word spoken by the portrait.

When he descended to breakfast, both Mr. Armstrong and his daughter remarked his disordered appearance, and anxiously inquired, how he had passed the night.  To these inquiries, he frankly admitted, that he had been disturbed by unpleasant dreams.