The second night, being tired from lack of sleep, he soon lost consciousness. But during the small hours he had a thrilling and stirring time. Surely I do not need to tell you what rude occurrences there may be in one's dreams. Raging bulls tore after him as he tried to escape, meeting him again and again at the turning of a lane. There were lonely rooms whose doors flew open of their own accord--a footstep, and a shadow around the corner--of _it_! There were railway tracks with an oncoming train, and, suddenly--paralysis! Then loud hangings at the door, and a call of "Johannes! Johannes!" and, waking up, a deathly stillness. After that he noticed some very queer and most astonishing things in the room--a pair of pantaloons that walked away of itself, and in the corner a blood-curdling phantom. And then he was conscious of not being awake, and of making a desperate effort to shake off sleep. Such was the frightful time which befell Johannes that night. At last, when he actually woke himself up with a scream that he heard resounding in the stillness, and while he lay listening to the beating of his heart, he also heard, like a soft echo of his cry, a fearful, smothered moaning and lamenting that lingered in the silent hallways of the darkened house When all was still, he thought it had been a part of his dreams. But even while he was lying wide awake, it began again, and it was such a dismal sound he could feel the goose-flesh forming. Then silence. "It must have been a dog," he thought. But there it was! A dog does not groan like that! It was a human voice. Could Olga or Frieda be ill? The next time it came, he knew it was not the voice either of Olga or of Frieda. It was that of a much older person--not an invalid, but some one in mortal anguish--some one being menaced, who was imploring pity. He heard something like "Oh! Oh!--O God, have mercy!" But he could not understand the words, for the sounds came faintly. He thought a murder was being committed, and he recalled that Death had been his fellow traveler. He sprang out of bed and stepped into the dark hall. Everything was quiet there. The sound came from upstairs, and now he heard, replying to the groans, a calm, soothing, hushing voice--sometimes commanding, sometimes coaxing. A door opened, and a faint light shone out. Another door was opened and then closed. All this seemed to prove that Johannes' intervention was not at all necessary, and that he would perhaps cut a ridiculous figure by attempting to step in as a rescuer. Then, unnerved and miserable, he went to sleep again. In the morning, both little girls and the governess partook of their breakfast of tea, malted milk, toasted bread, and ham and eggs, just as if nothing had happened. The mother was to be away again until afternoon. Frieda and Olga sat peacefully and quietly eating, like well bred little girls. At last Johannes could keep silence no longer, and said to the governess: "Did anything bad happen in the night?"