He fastened the door securely, but, as he left the window open,
currents of fresh cool air poured into the room. He was now fully
revived in both mind and body, and he took present ease and comfort,
thinking but little of the future. The flurries of rain melted into a
steady pour. The cold deepened, and as he wrapped the two blankets
around him his sense of comfort increased. Lightning flared at
infrequent intervals and now and then real thunder mingled with that of
the artillery.
He felt that he might have been back at home. It was like some snug
little place in the high hills of Pennsylvania or New York. Like many
other Americans, he often felt surprise that Europe should be so much
like America. The trees and the grass and the rivers were just the same.
Nothing was different but the ancient buildings. He knew now that
history and a long literature merely created the illusion of difference.
He wondered why the artillery fire did not die, with the wind sweeping
such gusts of rain before it. Then he remembered that the sound of so
many great cannon could travel a long distance, and there might be no
rain at the points from which the firing came. The cottage might stand
in a long narrow valley up which the clouds would travel.
Not feeling sleepy yet he decided to have another look about the house.
A search revealed a small box of matches near the lamp on the shelf.
Then he closed the window in order to shut in the flame, and, lighting
the lamp, pursued his investigation.
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