For at those rare periods when he slept, his sleep was not unconsciousness, not rest: it was a trance of hideous dreams--his tongue spoke, his limbs moved, when he slumbered as when he woke.

It was only when his visions of the pride, the power, the fierce conflicts, and daring resolutions of his maturer years gave place to his dim, quiet, waking dreams of his boyish days, that his wasted faculties reposed, and his body rested with them in the motionless languor of perfect fatigue.
Then, if words were still uttered by his lips, they were as murmurs of an infant--happy sleep; for the innocent phrases of his childhood which they then revived, seemed for a time to bring with them the innocent tranquillity of his childhood as well.
'Go! go!--fly while you are yet free!' cried Numerian, dropping the hand of Antonina, and pointing to the door.

But for the second time the girl refused to move forward a step.

No horror, no peril in the temple could banish for an instant her remembrance of the night at the farm-house in the suburbs.

She kept her head turned towards the vacant entrance, fixed her eyes on it in the unintermitting watchfulness of terror, and whispered affrightedly, 'Goisvintha! Goisvintha!' when her father spoke.
The clasp of the Pagan's fingers remained fixed and deathlike as at first; he leaned back against the wall, as still as if life and action had for ever departed from him.