Yet suddenly he grows uneasy. Some strange fancy has pierced the mists of sleep and seared his soul. "Why have thy golden locks been shorn, my boy? Why have they done that?"
"My head was hurting me, Papa. That is why they have shorn my locks." And once again, in his fond delusion, the Man feels happy as he gazes at the blue sky and listens to the rustling of the reeds as they part before the boat.
No; he knows not that at this moment his son is dying. He knows not that his beloved child is calling to him with a last voiceless cry of the soul as, in the throes of delirium, the boy's childish instinct turns once more to its belief in the superior strength of his elders. "Papa, Papa! I am dying! Save me, Papa!" No; the Man sleeps on, in sound and happy slumber, while secret, fleeting dreams continue to present to his vision a dream of happiness which shall never be.
Awake, Man, awake! Thy son is—dead!
[The man lifts his head with a frightened gesturey and rises to his feet.]
The Man.
I feel a sort of fear upon me. I thought I heard some one call.
[Almost at the same moment the sound of female voices in lamentation is heard behind the scenes, and the Man's Wife enters, looking as white as a sheet.]
The Man.
Our—our son? Is—is he dead?