_
The feathered, flowered grass, miles of it, and the sea of air.... By
degrees the level of consciousness sank. The splendid, steadfast
moment could not be long sustained. Consciousness drew difficult
breath in the pure ether, it felt weight, it sank. Alexander moved
against the old tomb, turned, and buried his face in his arms. The
completer moment went by, here was the torn self again. But he strove
to find footing on the thickening impressions of all such moments.
Moving back to Rome, along the old way where had marched all the
legions, by the ruins, under the blue sky, he had a sense of going
with Caesar's legions, step by step, targe by targe, and then of his
footstep halting, turning out, breaking rhythm.... From this it was
suddenly a winter night and at Glenfernie, and he sat by the fire in
his father's death-room. His father spoke to him from the bed and he
went to his side and listened to dying words, distilled from a wide
garden that had relaxed into bitterness, growths, and trails of ideal
hatred.... _What was it, setting one's foot upon an adder?... What was
the adder?_
He entered the city. His lodging was above the workroom and shop of a
recoverer of ancient coins and intaglios, skilful cleanser and mender
of these and merchant to whom would buy. The man was artist besides,
maker of strange drawings whom few ever understood or bought.
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