Before me, and not over three paces distant, the image of Death himself rose out of the earth, and stretched forth his skeleton arms to clutch me. It was no phantom. There was the white, naked skull, with its eyeless sockets, the long, flesh-less limbs, the open, serrated ribs, the long, jointed fingers of Death himself.
As my bewildered brain took in these objects I heard a noise in the bushes as of persons engaged in an angry struggle.
“Emile, Emile!” cried a female voice, “you shall not murder him—you shall not!”
“Off! off!—Marie, let me go!” was shouted in the rough accents of a man.
“Oh, no!” continued the female, “you shall not—no—no—no!”
“Curses on the woman! There, let me go now!”
There was a sound as of someone struck with violence—a scream—and at the same moment a human figure rushed out of the bushes, and, confronting me, exclaimed: “Ha! Monsieur le Capitaine! coup pour coup!” I heard no more; a heavy blow, descending upon my temples, deprived me of all power, and I fell senseless to the earth. When I returned to consciousness the first objects I saw were the huge brown whiskers of Lincoln, then Lincoln himself, then the pale face of the boy Jack; and, finally, the forms of several soldiers of my company. I saw that I was in my own tent and stretched upon my camp-bed.
“What?—howl—what’s the matter!—what’s this?” I said, raising my hands to the bandage of wet linen that bound my temples.
“Keep still, Cap’n,” said Bob, taking my hand from the fillet and placing it by my side.
“Och! by my sowl, he’s over it; thank the Lord for His goodness!” said Chane, an Irish soldier.