My heart stopped with the horror of it; my whole being fell to pieces at
the agony of it. I remember running from it as from the gates of hell. I
remember reeling on the stairs. I remember a headlong fall. I remember no
more.
It was Jack.
CHAPTER XV
IN THE MOORLANDS
I was in bed, there was no doubt about that, and a strange sort of bed
too, for it moved lightly and deliciously through the keen, open air like
the magic carpet of the Eastern tale. The bedposts at my feet were most
curiously carved into life-like images of warriors, so life-like, indeed,
that when the one on the right turned its shaggy head and spoke to the one
on the left, I was not shocked and scarcely surprised. Bed it was,
however, for mother's soft, smooth hand was on my cheek, and under the
balm of its touch I went off to sleep again.
When my eyes opened again, the mists had cleared out of them and I was no
longer in the land of shadows. The carven bedposts were Highlanders; the
bed was a litter slung between four of them; the touch was hers. Somebody
spoke, the Highlanders came to a halt, and Margaret bent over me.
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