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!"