As Mendez pronounced the dreadful words, the father, overcome by his emotions, uttered a groan and sank to the earth. As if pitying his grief, and feeling that it was idle to say anything more, the Apache turned slowly about and walked away, leaving the white man alone with his grief.
And then some one touched Freeman on the shoulder, shook him and he—awoke.
It was all a dream. He had sat down with his back against the boulder to await the signal from Lieutenant Decker, and, hearing it not, had sunk into a restless sleep, and now opened his eyes under the vigorous stirring of his young friend.
“Come,” said the officer in a guarded voice, “a sentinel must not sleep on his post. I heard you moan and thought you had been hurt.”
It is impossible to throw off on the instant the effects of a vivid dream. It will linger for a time in our thoughts, even though strong sense tells us the whole thing is absurd. Captain Freeman during his days of campaigning had learned to fall asleep and to awaken quickly. He saw almost on the instant the true situation and greeted his friend cordially and cautiously.
“This was a piece of thoughtlessness on my part; but, lieutenant, I have gone through a frightful dream: it makes me shudder even now.”
“I thought something of the kind was under way, for I was guided to this spot by a moan that was like that of a dying person. It was only a little while ago that three Apaches came down to the spring or rivulet, as you may call it, to drink. They stood for some minutes talking. Had you groaned in your sleep or breathed heavily, your slumber would have turned to that which knows no waking.”
“I have been fortunate, but perhaps it is well that I slept, and yet I am sorry, for its remembrance is terrible.”
“You have no faith in dreams, captain, I am sure?”
“None the less they impress us, no matter how we ridicule them.”