It was Death whom we were hunting--Death, for me my uncle--and I would fancy him waiting in the darkness, watching me, smiling, hearing his hunters draw off the scent, knowing that they would not find him, but that _he_ had found _me_.

Then my knees would fail me, I would sink down in a sweat of terror, and--wake!...

Brrr!...

I can see it now!" He shook himself, turning round to me as though he were suddenly ashamed of himself, with a laugh half-shy, half-retrospective.
"We all have our dreams," he continued.

"But this came too often--again and again.