The hall seemed full of flaming
arrows, and he collapsed slowly on the polished floor. He was moved; he
was half-conscious of his heels dragging upstairs, of frequent pauses,
voices expostulating and directing thinly. Finally he sank into a
sublimated peace in, apparently, a floating white cloud.
He awoke refreshed, mentally clear, but absurdly weak--he was lying in
the middle of a four-posted bed, a bed with posts so massive and tall
that they resembled smooth towering trees. Beyond them he could see a
marble mantel; a grate filled with softly smoldering coals, and a
gleaming brass hod; a highboy with a dark lustrous surface; oval gold
frames; and muslin curtains in an open window, stirring in an air that
moved the fluted valance at the top of the bed. It was late afternoon,
the light was fading, the interior wavering in a clear shadow filled
with the faint fat odor of the soft coal.
The immaculate bed linen bore an elusive cool scent, into which he
relapsed with profound delight. The personality of the room, somber and
still, flowed about him with a magical release from the inferno of the
past years, the last hours. He heard a movement at a door, and the
colored woman in the white turban moved to the side of the bed.
"I told her," she said in an aggrieved voice, "there wasn't nothing at
all wrong with you. I reckon now you're all ready to fight again or
eat. Why did you stir things all up in Richmond and kill good folks?"
"To set you free!" Elim Meikeljohn replied.
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