No phantoms, no shadow, nothing unreal, save the memory of that which I have but dimly described.

That was but as a terrible nightmare--an awful dream.
Where was Kaffar?
I could not tell.

Certainly he was not near; but two other forms stood by me, one bearing a lantern.
"Is it you, Justin ?" said a voice.
"It is I, Tom," I said, looking vacantly around.
"And where is Kaffar ?" said another voice, which I recognized as Voltaire's.
"Kaffar?
I--I do not know." "But you have been together." "Have we ?" I said vacantly.
"You know you have.

What is that in your hand ?" I had scarcely known what I had been saying or doing up to this time, but as he spoke I looked at my hand.
In the light of the moon I saw a knife red with blood, and my hand, too, was also discoloured.
"What does this mean ?" cried Voltaire.
"I do not know.

I am dazed--bewildered." "But that is Kaffar's knife.