unconscious.




CHAPTER VII

PICKING UP THE THREADS

I turned my head slightly on the hard shuck pillow and gazed curiously
about. When my eyes had first opened all I could perceive was the
section of log wall against which I rested, but now, after painfully
turning over, the entire interior of the single-room cabin was
revealed. It was humble enough in all its appointments, the walls
quite bare, the few chairs fashioned from half-barrels, a packing box
for a table, and the narrow bed on which I lay constructed from
saplings lashed together, covered with a coarse ticking, packed with
straw. The floor was of hard, dry clay; a few live coals remained,
smoking in the open fireplace, while a number of garments, among them
to be recognized my own clothing, dangled from wooden pegs driven into
the chinks of the farther wall. I surveyed the entire circuit of the
room wonderingly, a vague memory of what had lately occurred returning
slowly to mind. To all appearances I was there alone, although close
beside me stood a low stool, supporting a tin basin partially filled
with water. As I moved I became conscious of a dull pain in my left
shoulder, which I also discovered to be tightly bandaged. It was late
in the day, for the rays of the sun streamed in through the single
window, and lay a pool of gold along the center of the floor.

I presume it was not long, yet my thoughts were so busy it seemed as if