Sunlight flooded the room when Grant awoke. He was alone. His mind was clearer than it had been since he was shot. Only the steady burning in his vitals linked this moment of comfort with the tortured past. His eyes roved about the room to take in its appointments. White walls devoid of ornamentation; by the heavy door with its curiously wrought iron latch a single chest of drawers of some antique pattern; the bed he lay upon massive as a galleon of old days and with a canopy of carved wood and tapestry for a sail: here was a room from the period department of the Metropolitan Museum.
Grant was patiently trying to fit together the jig-saw scraps of his memory when the door opened and the white man he had seen the night before entered. Seeing the light of reason in the patient’s eyes, Don Padraic smiled and bowed. Something mighty heartening lay in that welcome and the warm cordiality of Don Padraic’s features.
“I am rejoiced to find you better to-day,” he said as he drew a chair to the side of the bed. “Yours was a hard journey last night.”
“I am still a little uncertain up here”—Grant tapped his forehead with an attempt at a laugh. “For instance, I was just thinking I had been lifted straight into a room of the Metropolitan in New York.”
The host’s brows were knitted an instant, then he caught the allusion and smiled.
“Ah, yes; we have rather ancient furnishings here. But you are quite a distance from New York, señor. This is the Casa O’Donoju in the Garden of Solitude, and I am Don Padraic O’Donoju.”
The name crashed into Grant’s consciousness like the clang of iron. His heart gave a great leap. Could it be possible—? No, this must be but part of the aurora dreams of the vague eternity still just behind his back. Grant wished to make no blunder which might belie the present soundness of his mind, so he held his tongue over the question burning to be asked. Instead:
“My name is Grant Hickman, sir. I am deeply obliged to you for your charity in bringing me here. Of course, I do not know quite how it all happened—my coming here from some place else, where an Indian, or two of them—seemed to be caring for me. And I fear I am hardly a presentable guest.” The sick man’s hand passed ruefully over his stubby chin.
Don Padraic made a gesture dismissing Grant’s fastidiousness. “Señor, a gentleman should not consider the state of his beard and the state of his health with equal seriousness. The one may be repaired at once even if our wishes cannot immediately effect a cure of the other. Permit me to retire, señor, and not tax you with questions until you are stronger.”
Shortly after the gentle host had bowed himself out an Indian servant entered with basin and razor and effected an agreeable change in the patient’s appearance. Then Grant was left alone with the tab to a wonderful possibility to turn over and over in his mind.