ought I cried
and cried upon you to come back in a very agony of terror; whether you
heard me I know not, but you went doggedly on. The road brought you to a
desert place among ruins, where was a door in a hill-side, and hard by
the door a misbegotten pine. Here you dismounted (I still crying on you
to beware), tied your horse to the pine-tree, and entered resolutely in
by the door. Within, it was dark; but in my dream I could still see you,
and still besought you to hold back. You felt your way along the
right-hand wall, took a branching passage to the right, and came to a
little chamber, where was a well with a railing. At this--I know not
why--my alarm for you increased a thousandfold, so that I seemed to
scream myself hoarse with warnings, crying it was still time, and
bidding you begone at once from that vestibule. Such was the word I used
in my dream, and it seemed then to have a clear significancy; but
to-day, and awake, I profess I know not what it means. To all my outcry
you rendered not the least attention, leaning the while upon the rail
and looking down intently in the water. And then there was made to you a
communication; I do not think I even gathered what it was, but the fear
of it plucked me clean out of my slumber, and I awoke shaking and
sobbing. And now,' continues the count, 'I thank you from my heart for
your insistency. This dream lay on me like a load; and now I have told
it in plain words and in the broad daylight, it seems no great
matter.'--'I do not know,' says the baron. 'It is in some points
strange. A communication, did you say! O! it is an odd dream. It will
make a story to amuse our friends.'--'I am not so sure,' says the count.
'I am sensible of some reluctancy. Let us rather forget it.'--'By all
means,' says the baron. And (in fact) the dream was not again referred
to. Some days after, the count proposed a ride in the fields, which the
baron (since they were daily growing faster friends) very readily
accepted. On the way back to Rome, the count led them insensibly by a
particular route. Presently he reined in his horse, clapped his hand
before his eyes, and cried out aloud. Then he showed his face again
(which was now quite white, for he was a consummate actor), and stared
upon the baron. 'What ails you?' cries the baron. 'What is wrong with
you?'--'Nothing,' cries the count. 'It is nothing. A seizure, I know
not what. Let us hurry back to Rome.' But in the meanwhile the baron had
looked