Looking back, he saw that what
he had been lying upon was another divan. And dose to this were
book-shelves, and a table on which were magazines and papers and a
woman's workbasket, and in the workbasket--sound asleep--a cat!
And then, over the table and the sleeping cat, his eyes rested
upon a triangular banner fastened to the wall. In white against a
background of black was a mighty polar bear holding at bay a horde
of Arctic wolves. And suddenly the thing he had been fighting to
recall came to Carrigan--the great bear--the fighting wolves--the
crest of St. Pierre Boulain!
He took a quick step toward the table--then caught at the back of
a chair. Confound his head! Or was it the big bateau rocking under
his feet? The cat seemed to be turning round in its basket. There
were half a dozen banners instead of one; the lamp was shaking in
its bracket; the floor was tilting, everything was becoming
hideously contorted and out of place. A shroud of darkness
gathered about him, and through that darkness Carrigan staggered
blindly toward the divan. He reached it just in time to fall upon
it like a dead man.
VI
For what seemed to be an interminable time after the final
breakdown of his physical strength David Carrigan lived in a black
world where a horde of unseen little devils were shooting red-hot
arrows into his brain.
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