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But at times certain incidents or coincidents take place in the life of the soldier that are inexplainable, to say the least. Now it is certain that every soldier going into battle has some dread of death. It is the nature of man to dread that long lost sleep at any time and in any place.
His dread was that the Russian fleet would forestall him by getting to sea first, steam to the southward, and, getting into touch with one or more of the craft which were certain to be watching the Japanese fleet, would lie perdu until that fleet had passed to the northward, and then fall upon and ravage the unprotected Japanese coast.
Barto's wife came to the lamp and beckoned him out, bearing the lamp away. There was now for the first time darkness in this vault. Wilfrid called Rinaldo by name, and heard nothing but the fear of the place, which seemed to rise bristling at his voice and shrink from it. He called till dread of his voice held him dumb. "I am, then, a coward," he thought.
"Nothing.... I told you once that I am afraid even in daylight. Ask yourself what I fear here under the stars with you." "You fear me?" managing to laugh. "No; I dread your ally my unknown self in arms eternally to fight for you," she answered with forced gaiety. "Shall we kill her to-night? She deserves no consideration at our hands." "Dear " "Hush! That is not the countersign on the firing line.
His desire to catch her eye was becoming mingled with a certain dread, as if in a single interchange of glances the illusions of the moment would either vanish utterly or become irrevocably fixed.
During twenty years, Louis had been at war with society, trusted by none, living upon his wits, and the credulity of foolish men enabling him to gain an income without labor; and, though he generally attained his ends, it was not without great danger and constant dread of detection.
She had not stood thus with uplifted arms for many minutes when the moon, once more appearing, recalled her to herself and to actuality. She now perceived close to her, at hardly a hundred paces from where she stood, the line of sphinxes by the side of which lay the tombs of Apis near which she was to await Publius. Her heart began to beat faster again, and her dread of her own weakness revived.
She had a feeling of dread a numb, sweet feeling that she could not explain, except that under all of it lay the proud consciousness that he was a man who had courage, a man who was not afraid. "How silly I am," she said, half aloud in her abstraction. She turned her gaze away from the blinking light in the hills, a queer, guilty smile on her lips.
Averil told her she was better, but half repented, as the child sank into torpor again; and Averil, no longer the bewildered girl who had been so easily led from the death scene, knew the fitful breath and fluttering pulse, and felt the blank dread stealing over her heart.
"He is, madam." A spasm of pain crossed her set-white face, as her lips opened slowly, and the next question came with a gasp of dread: "By by his own hand?" "Oh, no, madam, no indeed," cried the gentleman eagerly, glad to give that relief. "He was on the train going down to the city, which was wrecked twenty miles this side of it. His death was instant and painless, a blow on the left temple."
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