No response was given to this prayer, and his words were followed by a deep and solemn silence, that was only broken occasionally by the heavy pattering of the descending rain, and the fitful gusts of the blast, as they rushed against the house, and sung wildly among the few trees by which it and the garden were enclosed.

Every one knows that a night of wind and storm, if not rising actually to a tempest or hurricane, is precisely that on which sleep is with its deepest influence upon men.  Sullivan’s family, on that which we are describing, were a proof of this; at least until about the hour of three o’clock, when they were startled by a cry for help, so loud and frightful, that in a moment he and the boys huddled on their dress, and hurried to the bed in which the prophet lay.  In a minute or two they got a candle lit; and truly the appearance of the man was calculated to drive fear and alarm into their hearts.  They found him sitting in the bed, with his eyes so wild and staring that they seemed straining out of their sockets.  His hair was erect, and his mouth half open, and drawn back; while the perspiration poured from him in torrents.  His hands were spread, and held up, with their palms outwards, as if in the act of pushing something back that seemed to approach him.  “Help,” he shouted, “he is comin’ on me—­he will have me powerless in a minute.  He is gaspin’ now, as he—­Stay back, stay back—­here—­here, help; it’s the murdhered man—­he’s upon me.  Oh!—­Oh, God! he’s comin’ nearer and nearer.  Help me—­save me!”

Sullivan on holding the candle to his face, perceived that he was still asleep; and suspecting the nature of his dream, he awoke him at once.  On seeing a portion of the family about him, he started again, and looked for a moment so completely aghast that he resembled horror personified.

“Who—­what—­what are you?  Oh,” he exclaimed, recovering, and striving to compose himself, “ha—­Good God! what a frightful drame I had.  I thought I was murdherin’ a man; murdherin’ the”—­he paused, and stared wildly about him.

“Murdherin’ who?” asked Jerry.

“Murdherin’! eh—­ha—­why, who talks about murdherin’?”

“Compose yourself,” added Sullivan; “you did; but you’re frightened.  You say you thought you were murdherin’ some one; who was it?”

“Yes, yesr” he replied; “it was myself.  I thought the murdhered man was—­I mean, that the man was murdherin’ myself.”  And he looked with a terrible shudder of fear towards the great coat.

“Hut,” said Sullivan, “it was only a drame; compose yourself; why should you be alarmed?—­your hand is free of it.  So, as I said, compose yourself; put your trust in God, an’ recommend yourself to his care.”

“It was a terrible drame,” said the other, once more shuddering; “but then it was a drame.  Good God; yes!  However, I ax pardon for disturbin’ you all, an’ breaking in upon your sleep.  Go to bed now; I’m well enough; only jist set that bit of candle by the bed-side for awhile, till I recover, for I did get a fearful fright.”