Oliver Lane’s sensations were for the moment horrible. He knew now that the steamy vapour into which they had penetrated must be full of gas perilous to human life—that the emanations from the volcanic soil were asphyxiating, and he completely lost his head, and tottered feebly here and there.
But in a few moments this passed off, for he made a desperate effort to command himself, knowing full well that if he did not act his case was hopeless. His only chance was, he knew, to rush out through the mist into pure air. But which way? He had lost all idea of the direction by which he had come; he dare not stoop down, and try to trace his foot-prints, because of the vapour being certainly more dense and dangerous closer to the surface, and all that was feasible was to make a rush, chancing whether it was forward into greater danger, to right or left, hoping only that his instinct would lead him back by the way he came.
Strong now in his intention, he drew a hot stifling breath, set his teeth and ran for a few yards; then staggered a few more, growing blind, and feeling that his senses were fast leaving him. Then his brain throbbed, a peculiar trembling weakness came over him, and, almost unconsciously, he tottered along a few steps more, reeled, and fell heavily upon the ground.
His senses did not quite leave him, for he knew that he was trying to crawl through what seemed to him to be something like soft liquid opal, with its wonderfully bright tints before his eyes, bluish, golden, creamy, fiery, and pale, then there was a darkening around them as if he were crawling into shadow; and again, directly after, as it appeared, he could see a bright glow, toward which he involuntarily struggled, for it was an instinctive effort now to preserve his life. And as he crawled onward, the glow grew brighter, he could breathe more freely, and the light gradually assumed the hue of bright sunshine, where he fell passive beneath the dense foliage of a huge tree.
Everything was very dreamy now for a time. His head throbbed and felt confused, and a sickly, deathly sensation made his brain reel. By degrees this passed away, and he lay gazing at the strange opalescent something through which he felt that he had passed, and by degrees he realised that he was watching the great curtain of mist made glorious by the sunshine, and easily understood now why, in his strange semi-insensibility, this had seemed to be a liquid through which he had crawled while breathing the strange mephitic air.
“Then I did go in the right direction,” was his next thought, as he still lay feeble and languid, and as if regaining his senses after taking some powerful opiate.
He felt a kind of satisfaction at this, and luxuriously drew in great draughts of soft warm air. For it was a delight to breathe freely, and lie there without making any exertion. The trees were so green and bright, and the flowers of such delicious tints, especially those he could see climbing up and up, and spreading their wealth of blossoms in one spot, till that was one lovely sheet of colour.
“It doesn’t matter.”
These words pretty well expressed Oliver Lane’s thoughts for some time before he attempted to move. The past, save and except the dim memory of his having been in some trouble in a mist and losing his way, had no existence for him, and the young man lay there in a state of the most intense egotism, utterly prostrate, but supremely content.
Then all at once there was a change.