o the horrors of a first intoxication.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

ZOE.

I lay tracing the figures upon the curtains. They were scenes of the
olden time--mailed knights, helmed and mounted, dashing at each other
with couched lances, or tumbling from their horses, pierced by the
spear. Other scenes there were: noble dames, sitting on Flemish
palfreys, and watching the flight of the merlin hawk. There were pages
in waiting, and dogs of curious and extinct breeds held in the leash.
Perhaps these never existed except in the dreams of some old-fashioned
artist; but my eye followed their strange shapes with a sort of
half-idiotic wonder.

Metallic rods upheld the curtains; rods that shone brightly, and curved
upwards, forming a canopy. My eyes ran along these rods, scanning their
configuration, and admiring, as a child admires, the regularity of their
curves. I was not in my own land. These things were strange to me.
"Yet," thought I, "I have seen something like them before, but where?
Oh! this I know, with its broad stripes and silken texture; it is a
Navajo blanket! Where was I last? In New Mexico? Yes. Now I
remember: the Jornada! but how came I?

"Can I untwist this? It is close woven; it is wool, fine wool. No, I
cannot separate a thread from--

"My fingers! how white and thin they are! and my nails, blue, and long
as the talons of a bird! I have a beard! I feel it on my chin. What
gave me a beard? I never wear it; I will shave it off--ha! my
moustache!"

I was wearied, and slept again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once more my eyes were tracing the figures upon the curtains: the
knights and dames, the hounds, hawks, and horses. But my brain had
become clearer, and music was flowing into it. I lay silent, and
listened.

The voice was a female's. It was soft and finely modulated. Someone
played upon a stringed instrument. I recognised the tones of the
Spanish harp, but the song was French, a song of Normandy; and the words
were in the language of that romantic land. I wondered at this, for my
consciousness of late events was returning; and I knew that I was far
from France.

The light was streaming over my couch; and, turning my face to the
front, I saw that the curtains were drawn aside.

I was in a large room, oddly but elegantly furnished. Human figures
were before me, seated and standing.

After looking steadily for a while, my vision bec