And Elfie, to occupy her mind and keep herself awake, commenced quoting poetry; another imprudent act, for however appropriate were the lines to the time and scene, they were ill chosen for the occasion, because they made her the more nervous, though not the less sleepy. The lines she quoted were these: “’Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion on the world.” And so on to the end. Before Elfie got to the end she had dropped asleep again, and she slept on until she was once more aroused by the silvery striking of the clock. It chimed “one,” and she sprang up with a guilty pang. “Goodness! I had nearly been asleep again. One o’clock! well, the time does pass. Only one hour more of this dreadful watch. I must try to keep awake somehow. It will never do to let Britomarte catch me, a sentinel, sleeping on my post. She is used to military discipline, and might take it into her head that I ought to be shot. And indeed I think she would be right. What a brute I am, even to feel like going to sleep beside this dying angel!” exclaimed Elfie, rising and looking over her charge. “No change—oh, no change, my poor, sweet martyr,” she said, as she kissed the pale brow and then resumed her seat. “Yes, I must keep awake somehow. Let me try more poetry, though nothing but the horrible recurs to my memory to-night,” said Elfie, yawning. “Now o’er the one-half world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtained sleep; now witchcraft—” Elfie lost herself, nodded forward, caught herself up and began again, “Now witchcraft,” and nodded, and then resumed, “Witchcraft,” and then she fell fast asleep. Now what followed Elfie could never exactly account for, could never even understand whether it were reality or “witchcraft,” indeed. But this was what took place, or seemed to do so. Elfie thought that she was again on the point of dropping to sleep, when she became conscious that a tall, handsome, black-haired and black-dressed man stood beside her. She seemed only half awake, and took the man for Justin, and was about to speak to him, when she suddenly recognized the Rebel General Eastworth, supposed to be then in the entrenched lines of Charleston, helping to defend the city, but also reported to have been killed in the last assault by the Union forces. Before Elfie recovered from her astonishment so as to be able to call out, the man, or the ghost, whichever it was, stretched forth his arm, and placed a moist sponge, enveloped in a white handkerchief, to her nose. And Elfie was at once exhilarated and overwhelmed by a strange, delicious odor, that intoxicated her with a wild yet sweet delirium, and deprived her of both the will and the power to change her position. Sitting there, perfectly powerless, yet perfectly conscious, unable to move or to speak, she yet heard and saw all that passed.