He lay down, closed his eyes, and to the sheriff's astonishment
presently fell asleep. The sheriff, with his chin in his grimy hands,
sat and watched him as the day slowly darkened around them and the
distant fires came out in more lurid intensity. The face of the captive
and outlawed murderer was singularly peaceful; that of the captor and
man of duty was haggard, wild, and perplexed.

But even this changed soon. The sleeping man stirred restlessly and
uneasily; his face began to work, his lips to move. "Tom," he gasped
suddenly, "Tom!"

The sheriff bent over him eagerly. The sleeping man's eyes were still
closed; beads of sweat stood upon his forehead. He was dreaming.

"Tom," he whispered, "take me out of this place--take me out from
these dogs and pimps and beggars! Listen, Tom!--they're Sydney ducks,
ticket-of-leave men, short card sharps, and sneak thieves! There isn't a
gentleman among 'em! There isn't one I don't loathe and hate--and would
grind under my heel, elsewhere. I'm a gentleman, Tom--yes, by God--an
officer and a gentleman! I've served my country in the 9th Cavalry.
That cub of West Point knows it and despises me, seeing me here in such
company. That sergeant knows it--I recommended him for his first stripes
for all he taunts me,--d--n him!"

"Come, wake up!" said the sheriff harshly.

The prisoner did not heed him; the sheriff shook him roughly, so roughly
that the major's waistcoat and shirt dragged open, disclosing his fine
silk undershirt, delicately worked and embroidered with golden thread.