His victory over the natural incoherence of sleep had, when I first knew him, lasted for some years; possibly what imagination first produced was afterwards continued by habit.
I saw him again a few months subsequent to this confession, and he seemed to me much changed.

His health was broken, and his abstraction had deepened into gloom.
I questioned him of the cause of the alteration, and he answered me with great reluctance,-- "She is dead," said he; "my realms are desolate! A serpent stung her, and she died in these very arms.

Vainly, when I started from my sleep in horror and despair, vainly did I say to myself,--This is but a dream.

I shall see her again.

A vision cannot die! Hath it flesh that decays; is it not a spirit,--bodiless, indissoluble?
With what terrible anxiety I awaited the night! Again I slept, and the DREAM lay again before me, dead and withered.