Another pair of sentinels were on duty in place of those who had
refused him admittance.
He alighted from his horse, was challenged, showed his order, and
passed into the tent.
There a sight met him that caused the tears to rush to his eyes--for
the bravest is always the tenderest heart.
Thrown down on the mat at the back of the tent lay Traverse Rocke,
pale, haggard and sunken in the deep, deep sleep of utter
exhaustion. Even in that state of perfect abandonment, prostration
and insensibility, the expression of great mental anguish remained
upon his deathly countenance; a mortal pallor overspread his face;
his thick, black curls, matted with perspiration, clung to his
hollow temples and cheeks; great drops of sweat beaded upon his
corrugated brow; a quiver convulsed his mouth and chin; every
circumstance betrayed how severely, even in that swoonlike state, he
suffered.
Herbert drew a camp-stool and sat down beside his mat, resolving not
to break that greatly needed rest, but to wait patiently until the
sleeper should awake.
Again, I say that I know nothing about mesmerism, but I have seen
strange effects produced quite unconsciously by the presence of one
person upon another. And in a few minutes after Herbert took his
seat beside Traverse, it was noticeable that the face of the sleeper
lost its look of pain, and his rest grew deep and calm.
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