“Yes!” said Obenreizer, setting the lighted candle on the table, “it was a bad dream. Only look at me!”
His feet were bare; his red-flannel shirt was thrown back at the throat, and its sleeves were rolled above the elbows; his only other garment, a pair of under pantaloons or drawers, reaching to the ankles, fitted him close and tight. A certain lithe and savage appearance was on his figure, and his eyes were very bright.
“If there had been a wrestle with a robber, as I dreamed,” said Obenreizer, “you see, I was stripped for it.”
“And armed too,” said Vendale, glancing at his girdle.
“A traveller’s dagger, that I always carry on the road,” he answered carelessly, half drawing it from its sheath with his left hand, and putting it back again. “Do you carry no such thing?”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“No pistols?” said Obenreizer, glancing at the table, and from it to the untouched pillow.
“Nothing of the sort.”
“You Englishmen are so confident! You wish to sleep?”
“I have wished to sleep this long time, but I can’t do it.”