He
began to slip more easily and freely. The brain upon the bed, oddly
enough, remembered a tradition of old Egypt--that Thoth created the
world by bursting into seven peals of laughter. It touched forgotten
springs of imagination and belief. In some tenuous, racy vehicle his
thought flashed forth. With a gliding spring, like a swooping bird
across a valley, he was suddenly--out.
'I'm out!' he cried.
'All out!' echoed the answering voices.
And then he understood that first vivid impression of light. It was
everywhere, an evenly distributed light. He saw the darkness of the
night as well, the deep old shadows that draped the village, woods,
and mountains. But in themselves was light, a light that somehow
enabled them to see everything quite clearly. Solid things were all
transparent.
Light even radiated from objects in the room. Two much-loved books
upon the table shone beautifully--his Bible and a volume of poems;
and, fairer still, more delicate than either, there was a lustre on
the table that had so brilliant a halo it almost corruscated. The
sparkle in it was like the sparkle in the children's eyes. It came
from the bunch of violets, gentians, and hepaticas, already faded,
that Mother had placed there days ago on his arrival. And overhead,
through plaster, tiles, and rafters he saw--the stars.
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