How long he lay there thus he never knew.  With his returning consciousness came this strange twilight again,—­the twilight of a dream.  He was sitting in the new church at Canada City, as he had sat the first Sunday of his arrival there, gazing at the pretty face of Cissy Trixit in the pew opposite him, and wondering who she was.  Again he saw the startled, awakened light that came into her adorable eyes, the faint blush that suffused her cheek as she met his inquiring gaze, and the conscious, half conceited, half girlish toss of her little head as she turned her eyes away, and then a file of brown Chinamen, muttering some harsh, uncouth gibberish, interposed between them.  This was followed by what seemed to be the crashing in of the church roof, a stifling heat succeeded by a long, deadly chill.  But he knew that this last was all a dream, and he tried to struggle to his feet to see Cissy’s face again,—­a reality that he felt would take him out of this horrible trance,—­and he called to her across the pew and heard her sweet voice again in answer, and then a wave of unconsciousness once more submerged him.

He came back to life with a sharp tingling of his whole frame as if pierced with a thousand needles.  He knew he was being rubbed, and in his attempts to throw his torturers aside, he saw faintly by the light of a flickering fire that they were Chinamen, and he was lying on the floor of a rude hut.  With his first movements they ceased, and, wrapping him like a mummy in warm blankets, dragged him out of the heap of loose snow with which they had been rubbing him, toward the fire that glowed upon the large adobe hearth.  The stinging pain was succeeded by a warm glow; a pleasant languor, which made even thought a burden, came over him, and yet his perceptions were keenly alive to his surroundings.  He heard the Chinamen mutter something and then depart, leaving him alone.  But presently he was aware of another figure that had entered, and was now sitting with its back to him at a rude table, roughly extemporized from a packing-box, apparently engaged in writing.  It was a small Chinaman, evidently the one he had chased!  The events of the past few hours—­his mission, his intentions, and every incident of the pursuit—­flashed back upon him.  Where was he?  What was he doing here?  Had Trixit escaped him?

In his exhausted state he was unable to formulate a question which even then he doubted if the Chinaman could understand.  So he simply watched him lazily, and with a certain kind of fascination, until he should finish his writing and turn round.  His long pigtail, which seemed ridiculously disproportionate to his size,—­the pigtail which he remembered had streamed into the air in his flight,—­had partly escaped from the discovered hat under which it had been coiled.  But what was singular, it was not the wiry black pigtail of his Mongolian fellows, but soft and silky, and as the firelight played upon it, it seemed of a shining chestnut brown!  It was like—­like—­he stopped—­was he dreaming again?  A long sigh escaped him.