Thus saying, I began to undo the bed-cord.  I threw one end of it over a small beam projecting above the window, fastened it there, and made a slip-knot at the other end.  Then I mounted on the bed, and thus elevated for my own destruction, put my head into the noose and kicked away my support with one foot; so that the noose, tightened about my throat by the strain of my weight, might stop my breath.  But the rope, which was old and rotten, broke in two; and falling from aloft, I tumbled heavily upon Socrates, who was lying close by, and rolled with him on the floor.

Lo and behold! at that very instant the porter burst into the room, bawling out, “Where are you, you who were in such monstrous haste to be off at midnight, and now lie snoring, rolled up in the bed-clothes?”

At these words—­whether awakened by my fall or by the rasping voice of the porter, I know not—­Socrates was the first to start up; and he exclaimed, “Evidently travelers have good reason for detesting these hostlers.  This nuisance here, breaking in without being asked,—­most likely to steal something,—­has waked me out of a sound sleep by his outrageous bellowing.”

On hearing him speak I jumped up briskly, in an ecstasy of unhoped-for joy:—­“Faithfulest of porters,” I exclaimed, “my friend, my own father, and my brother,—­behold him whom you, in your drunken fit, falsely accuse me of having murdered.”

So saying, I embraced Socrates, and was for loading him with kisses; but he repulsed me with considerable violence.  “Get out with you!” he cried.  Sorely confused, I trumped up some absurd story on the spur of the moment, to give another turn to the conversation, and taking him by the right hand—­

“Why not be off,” said I, “and enjoy the freshness of the morning on our journey?”

So I took my bundle, and having paid the innkeeper for our night’s lodging, we started on our road.

We had gone some little distance, and now, everything being illumined by the beams of the rising sun, I keenly and attentively examined that part of my companion’s neck into which I had seen the sword plunged.

“Foolish man,” said I to myself, “buried in your cups, you certainly have had a most absurd dream.  Why, look:  here’s Socrates, safe, sound, and hearty.  Where is the wound?  Where is the sponge?  Where is the scar of a gash so deep and so recent?”

Addressing myself to him, I remarked, “No wonder the doctors say that hideous and ominous dreams come only to people stuffed with food and liquor.  My own case is a good instance.  I went beyond moderation in my drinking last evening, and have passed a wretched night full of shocking and dreadful visions, so that I still fancy myself spattered and defiled with human gore.”

“It is not gore,” he replied with a smile, “that you are sprinkled with.  And yet in my sleep I thought my own throat was being cut, and felt some pain in my neck, and fancied that my very heart was being plucked out.  Even now I am quite faint; my knees tremble; I stagger as I go, and feel in want of some food to hearten me up.”