As I told her I felt something grabbing at my throat.
About ten days ago I went to bed late. I had been waiting for important dispatches from the front. I was very weary and fell asleep as soon as I lay down. Then I began to dream.
There seemed to be a death-like stillness about me; then I heard subdued sobs, as if a number of people were weeping. I thought I left my bed and wandered downstairs. There the silence was broken by the same sobbing, but any mourners were invisible. I walked from room to room; every object was familiar. I was puzzled, alarmed. I kept on until I arrived at the East Room. There I met a sickening surprise.
Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse, in funeral vestments. Around it were stationed soldiers acting as guards. Beyond the soldiers was a crowd.
“Who is dead in the White House?” I asked one of the soldiers.
“The President,” he replied. “He was killed by an assassin.”
An outburst of grief came from the crowd.
I woke...
Mary was very disturbed by my dream; I gained nothing by telling her; in tears she threw herself on her bed.
“Don’t repeat your dream to anyone,” she said.