The self-convicted young offender was still dodging and flitting about among the columns, when the voice of the Manitou king—the first sound he had heard since the procession had vanished—came to his ears, with the somewhat startling words:
"Manitou-Echo and Will-o'-the-Wisp, come, conjure up, now, the red moccasins' dream! By this time our light has purged the young dreamer's eyes sufficiently clear of the red mist for him to see what stuff his dream is made of, and to what it is tending."
Whereupon a bareheaded elf, extremely fantastic in appearance, yet beautiful, too, and recognized at once by his voice, Manitou-Echo came flitting up to Sprigg, and, with a bland smile and light wave of the hand, thus addressed him:
"Sprigg, how are you this morning? Fresh and spry? Glad to hear it. Our brave Sprigg ran a fine race yesterday—splendid! Everybody said so! You shall run another to-day, if you much desire it. You have just been playing at hide and seek, I see. A nice little game all to yourself. That's merry; that's brave! Everybody plays at hide and seek who comes to our house, and we like to see it; it looks as if our guests were making themselves at home. One would think the old house had been designed expressly for that game, so many nooks and crannies and other out-of-the-way corners has it, where everybody thinks of hiding himself, and nobody thinks of seeking for himself. And, Sprigg, you would be astonished, were we to tell you, who have been here before you! Still, still more astonished, were I to tell you who are here at this very moment; all, like yourself, playing at hide and seek with—strange as you may think it—their own shadows! But no one ever hides from his shadow here, nor finds it. And why? Because the light in which his shadow is cast keeps continually before his eyes, so that, let him spin himself about as he will, still is his shadow ever behind him.
"Doubtless, we Manitous would play at the same game, and as merrily, too; but, unfortunately, as you see, we have no shadows to play with—never had. This deficiency, however, is to some extent atoned for by our being allowed to conjure with the dreams and fancies of you mortals, in which we find our chief entertainment, and the wilder your dreams, the more extravagant your fancies, the finer our entertainment.
"Now, to exemplify the point in question on a more diminished scale, allow me to present to your consideration a dream, in which I happen to have personal interest. When you have considered it attentively, will you please favor me with your opinion as to the stuff it is made of and what it is worth. Here it comes on six legs! Witness."
Sprigg looked. Incredible! The Indian boy and the Shetland pony displayed before his eyes, not as a motionless picture, but as living, moving things—careering 'round and 'round, within what seemed a magnificent amphitheater, crowded with human spectators—all conjured up out of Manitou mist. Yes, there they were—the pony with a small, red flag stuck in the browband of his bridle. The boy decked out in all his Indian bravery—tomahawk, feather hat, red moccasins—executing a bewildering variety of tip-toe, neck-or-nothing, superhuman antics, along the back and neck, over the head and tail of his fairy little charger. Anon, the wild young equestrian was the Indian boy no longer, but the very semblance of Sprigg himself, throwing his red predecessor completely in the shade, as one might well infer from the plaudits of the thousands and thousands of admiring, astonished spectators, all clapping their hands, waving their hats and shouting: "Hurrah! hurrah! Splendid! splendid!"
Sprigg rubbed his eyes and looked again. Just the same. He closed his eyes; it made no difference, he could see it as plainly through his eyelids. He opened them again. His semblance was fading into a shadow, so was that of the pony—fading like a cloud picture at sunset. Nothing distinctly visible, save the red moccasins, which, from the last fading outline of the pony's back, threw a prodigious summerset, and when they alighted upon the ground, there! in them again, Sprigg saw his semblance. Manitous, temple, amphitheater—all had vanished—a forest of lofty trees appearing instead, through whose glimmer of lights and shadows the boy now saw himself, or rather his wraith running with incredible swiftness, and glancing furtively over his shoulder at every bound, as if death were a present fear behind him; life a distant hope before.
But his pursuers, who and where are they? Ah! Yonder they come, and here they are, and there they go. Sweeping swiftly onward—a bear, a wolf, a panther and a bison bull—and his pursuers are gaining upon him at every bound, now treading upon his very shadow.
Meanwhile, the real Sprigg is conscious of a peculiar sensation, as if he were moving glidingly onward, borne along by invisible hands to keep pace with, and see the wild chase to the end. The end has come. He sees his wraith stop suddenly, poised on the very brink of a frightful precipice, those terrible shapes behind; a yawning, mist-hid gulf before. A moment, that semblance of himself stands reeling on the dizzy verge, then flings away, or is flung away into the misty void! His brain spins 'round and 'round; sight and sensation forsake him. The boy has swooned away! Will he be warned? Let us see!