His brain was heavy; he was conscious only of an
intense warmth. His arms appeared to be bound to his sides, his whole
body in a vise. He kicked out with a vigorous return of the instinct of
independence. The action shook his brain free and he understood: he was
tightly wrapped in a blanket, and there were other blankets upon him. He
raised his head. The room was one of familiar lineaments,--whitewashed
walls, a mat by the iron bed, an altar in the corner, linen with
elaborate drawn-work on bureau and washstand. The blood poured upward to
the young adventurer's face. Was this his room? Had he been ill and
dreamed strange happenings? He freed his arms and sat up. No; there was
no room in his father's house exactly like this, monotonous as were the
furnishing and architecture of the time.
He took his head between his hands and thought; the events of the past
weeks marched through his brain in rapid and precise succession--up to a
certain point: his senses had been frozen in the Sierras. From a raging
snowstorm to this blistering bed all was blank.
He disencumbered himself, slipped to the floor, and opened the door,
then scrambled back to bed as best he could; his legs felt as if they
had been boned.
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