Chapter 24

When awake [Endnote: 1], or beginning to awake, he lay for some time in
a maze; not a disagreeable one, but thoughts were running to and fro in
his mind, all mixed and jumbled together. Reminiscences of early days,
even those that were Preadamite; referring, we mean, to those times in
the almshouse, which he could not at ordinary times remember at all;
but now there seemed to be visions of old women and men, and pallid
girls, and little dirty boys, which could only be referred to that
epoch. Also, and most vividly, there was the old Doctor, with his
sternness, his fierceness, his mystery; and all that happened since,
playing phantasmagoria before his yet unclosed eyes; nor, so mysterious
was his state, did he know, when he should unclose those lids, where he
should find himself. He was content to let the world go on in this way,
as long as it would, and therefore did not hurry, but rather kept back
the proofs of awakening; willing to look at the scenes that were
unrolling for his amusement, as it seemed; and willing, too, to keep it
uncertain whether he were not back in America, and in his boyhood, and
all other subsequent impressions a dream or a prophetic vision. But at
length something stirring near him,--or whether it stirred, or whether
he dreamed it, he could not quite tell,--but the uncertainty impelled
him, at last, to open his eyes, and see whereabouts he was.

Even then he continued in as much uncertainty as he was before, and lay
with marvellous quietude in it, trying sluggishly to make the mystery
out. It was in a dim, twilight place, wherever it might be; a place of
half-awakeness, where the outlines of things were not well defined; but
it seemed to be a chamber, antique and vaulted, narrow and high, hung
round with old tapestry. Whether it were morning or midday he could not
tell, such was the character of the light, nor even where it came from;
for there appeared to be no windows, and yet it was not apparently
artificial light; nor light at all, indeed, but a gray dimness. It was
so like his own half-awake state that he lay in it a longer time, not
incited to finish his awaking, but in a languor, not disagreeable, yet
hanging heavily, heavily upon him, like a dark pall. It was, in fact,
as if he had been asleep for years, or centuries, or till the last day
was dawning, and then was collecting his thoughts in such slow fashion
as would then be likely.

Again that noise,--a little, low, quiet sound, as of one breathing
somewhere near him. The whole thing was very much like that incident
which introduced him to the Hospital, and his first coming to his
senses there; and he almost fancied that some such accident must again
have happened to him, and that when his sight cleared he should again