She shook her head.
“No,” she said, “not then.... I will tell you. I did not dream that dream again. It made me think; I told my confessor. It was not like other dreams. If ever I see the place I shall know it; of that I am sure.”
“And the man?” asked Hugh.
“I did not see his face,” she went on. “Only from what I felt did I guess him to be the same.”
“As what?” His heart beat quick.
“As the man of the dreams which made me so—so unhappy.”
She spoke almost piteously.
“And what were they?” asked Hugh.
Pale as she had been when she came, she grew paler still.
“They,” she said, in a hushed voice, “they were many, many; time after time, but always the same dream.” She paused, drew a sobbing breath, then went on: “It was of a room. At first when I had the dream I could only notice that it was a room with a table, all the other was dark. But two things I could see quite plain: one was a pistolet lying upon the table, the other was a man sitting like this.” (She leaned her arms upon the table and buried her face in her hands.) “And I—I, even in the dream, wanted that man to kill himself! yes, to take that pistol and shoot himself! Ah! monsieur!” she started and exclaimed. Hugh had uttered an exclamation.