The wickered counter was before him. Behind it stood a little, swarthy man in a skull cap. At either side was a litter of jewelry, gold watches, ticking alarm-clocks, resplendent canes and pictures. He and the man were in the shop alone.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
Quincy was sure he was going to explain, apologize and leave. His eyes were on a gun-metal object hanging below a gleaming samovar. He lifted his arm.
“How much is that?” he asked.
“The revolver—?”
Quincy trembled. He saw the little man’s sharp eyes stand on his thoughts like beads.
He went home, taking his purchase. He tucked it away beneath some winter underwear that he had camphored for the summer. Then he took off his clothes and calmly went to bed.
He slept well—three hours—until midnight. And then, all of a sudden, he awoke, clear-headed and sleep-less; his state as distinct from that of an earlier instant as is a bright cliff from the sea that slumbers at its foot.
And now, he ceased being the automaton that had gone forth that morning and come back that evening, laden, it is true, with new experience and new possession, but until then unconscious save of the reality of having moved.
He lay in his bed, high up above himself, as if he had stood indeed upon a cliff above the sleepy sea. It was a clear, white cliff. Before him, the sun lay on the opalescent waters. It shot a ray of flame below his feet. It struck the stone and fell back gleaming to the little waves that lapped it in. Above the sun was a purple cloud. In the cloud was orange lightning! There was the sun, farthest away from all, faintly receding toward the cliff, falling short and tumbling away into the water. There was the orange storm, lurid and encompassing, a little nearer—also beyond. And all about him, despite the sun, despite the glinted sea, was night. Upon it, these many things were visitations.