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“What ails you, my child?” said a mother to her son, as he lay on a couch under the influence of the dreadful one; “what ails you? you seem afraid!”
Boy. And so I am; a dreadful fear is upon me.
Mother. But of what? there is no one can harm you; of what are you apprehensive?
Boy. Of nothing that I can express; I know not what I am afraid of, but afraid I am.
Mother. Perhaps you see sights and visions; I knew a lady once who was continually thinking that she saw an armed man threaten her, but it was only an imagination, a phantom of the brain.
Boy. No armed man threatens me; and ’tis not a thing that would cause me any fear. Did an armed man threaten me, I would get up and
fight him; weak as I am, I would wish for nothing better, for then, perhaps, I should lose this fear; mine is a dread of I know not what, and there the horror lies.
Mother. Your forehead is cool, and your speech collected. Do you know where you are?
Boy. I know where I am, and I see things just as they are; you are beside me, and upon the table there is a book which was written by a Florentine; all this I see, and that there is no ground for being afraid. I am, moreover, quite cool, and feel no pain—but, but—