"'Sir, my life is in your hands; but as to my body, in relation to that which you would persuade me to, my soul shall sooner be separated from it, through the violence of your arms, than I shall condescend to your request.'"
"And I said that in my sleep?" inquired the amazed Beverton.
"You did," laughed his wife, "in the most plaintive, piping feminine accents imaginable. You were a perfect picture of virtue in distress. What were you dreaming of?"
"I don't remember. Isn't this the page"—he glanced at the book—"that you were reading when you fell asleep the other evening?"
"Yes, I think so; but I was looking at the knife when I dropped off."
"So was I," he responded. "Now, this is one of Cooper's tales, written, I think, about the middle of this century; and, though it is full of nautical language, there is nothing in it, up to this page, that resembles this prayerful speech of mine, or your reprehensible language the other evening, which you uttered, by the way, in hoarse, masculine tones."
"Did I?" she asked. "What did I say?"
"Something about 'eight bells,' and 'all hands drunk.' I've forgotten it all; but did you ever listen to any sailor yarns? Have you ever read any sea-stories besides this?"
"I never saw a sailor in my life, that I know of. I never read a sea-story, either, and never shall. I don't like them."
"Then it isn't the book, Grace, that affects us; it must be the knife. It is merely a bright object which, if looked at steadily, will put a person into a hypnotic sleep. At least, that is what I have heard."