"Those are the songs I would hear," said the old man.
"But I cannot sing them to you, and if I sang them you could not hear."
"Sing," again cried the old man, harshly; "sing, I bid you."
"I can never sing again," said the dream. "I can only die."
And for none of the old man's threats would the dream sing to him, but sat apart, mourning the loved ones it had lost.
So several days passed by, and every day the dream was growing less bright, a creature of tears and sighs, more and more fading away, like a withering flower. At length it was nothing but a gray shadow, a weary shape of mist that seemed ready to dissolve and vanish at any breath of wind. No one could have known it for that radiant vision that had hovered shimmering with such a divine light over the sleep of the lovers.
At length the old man lost patience, and began to curse himself for a fool in that he had parted with so great a treasure for this worthless, whimpering thing. And he raved like a madman as he saw in fancy all the gold and silver and rainbow-tinted jewels he had so foolishly thrown away.
"Take me back to them," said the dream, "and they will give you back your treasure."
"A likely thing," raged the old man, "to give back a treasure like that for such a sorry phantom."
"You will see," said the dream.