“That was curious, was it not? It would have been a tragical dream--it was more tragical in being no dream at all, but a reality. What had taken place was simple, and easy to understand. That woman had come thither, on this stormy night, to murder me; and she had very nearly succeeded. Had she found me asleep, I should never have waked. Fortunately, I was awake. Some noise frightened her, and she disappeared. A moment afterward one of the nurses came, and finally the surgeon. “When I told him what had taken place, he laughed. “‘Well, colonel, go back to bed,’ he said, ‘such dreams retard your recovery more than every thing else.’ “I obeyed, without taking the trouble to contradict him. My breast was bleeding again, and I did not get over the excitement for some days. The phantom did not return. I slowly recovered, and was taken in due time to Fort Delaware--the rest you know. “I forgot to tell you one thing. The surgeon almost persuaded me that I had been the victim of nightmare. Unfortunately, however, for the theory of the worthy, I found a deep hole in my pillow, where the poniard had entered. “So you see it was madam, and not her ghost, who had done me the honor of a visit, Surry.” XXIII. THE GRAVE OF ACHMED. An hour afterward I had dined with Mohun at his head-quarters, in the woods; mounted our horses; and were making our way toward the Rapidan to inspect the pickets. This consumed two hours. We found nothing stirring. As sunset approached, we retraced our steps toward Chancellorsville. I had accepted Mohun’s invitation to spend the night with him. As I rode on, the country seemed strangely familiar. All at once I recognized here a tree, there a stump--we were passing over the road which I had followed first in April, 1861, and again in August, 1862, when I came so unexpectedly upon Fenwick, and heard his singular revelation. We had been speaking of Mordaunt, to whose brigade Mohun’s regiment belonged, and the young officer had grown enthusiastic, extolling Mordaunt as ‘one of the greatest soldiers of the army, under whom it was an honor to serve.’ “Well,” I said, “there is a spot near here which he knows well, and where a strange scene passed on a night of May, 1863.” “Ah! you know the country, then?” said Mohun. “Perfectly well.” “What are you looking at?” “That hill yonder, shut in by a thicket. There is a house there.” And I spurred on, followed by Mohun. In five minutes we reached the brush-fence; our horses easily cleared it, and we rode up the hill toward the desolate-looking mansion. I surveyed it intently. It was unchanged, save that the porch seemed rotting away, and the window-shutters about to fall--that on the window to the right hung by a single hinge. It was the one through which I had looked in August, 1862. There was the same door through which I had burst in upon Fenwick and his companion. I dismounted, threw my bridle over a stunted shrub, and approached the house. Suddenly I stopped.