Of all the wonderful
faculties that help to tell us we are immortal, which speaks the
sublime truth more eloquently than memory? Here was I, in a
strange house of the most suspicious character, in a situation of
uncertainty, and even of peril, which might seem to make the cool
exercise of my recollection almost out of the question;
nevertheless, remembering, quite involuntarily, places, people,
conversations, minute circumstances of every kind, which I had
thought forgotten forever; which I could not possibly have
recalled at will, even under the most favorable auspices. And
what cause had produced in a moment the whole of this strange,
complicated, mysterious effect? Nothing but some rays of
moonlight shining in at my bedroom window.
I was still thinking of the picnic--of our merriment on the drive
home--of the sentimental young lady who _would_ quote "Childe
Harold" because it was moonlight. I was absorbed by these past
scenes and past amusements, when, in an instant, the thread on
which my memories hung snapped asunder; my attention immediately
came back to present things more vividly than ever, and I found
myself, I neither knew why nor wherefore, looking hard at the
picture again.
Looking for what?
Good God! the man had pulled his hat down on his brows! No! the
hat itself was gone! Where was the conical crown? Where the
feathers--three white, two green? Not there! In place of the hat
and feathers, what dusky object was it that now hid his forehead,
his eyes, his shading hand?
Was the bed moving?
I turned on my back and looked up.
Pages:
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71