He was lying under the open
sky, and the cool air of field and forest was blowing upon his face. He
sat up and looked about him. The memory of the late scene was still
horribly in his mind, but no vestige of it remained. No walls or ceiling
enclosed him; he was no longer in a room at all. There were no lamps
turned low, no cigar smoke, no black forms of sinister worshippers, no
tremendous grey Figure hovering beyond the windows.
Open space was about him, and he was lying on a pile of bricks and
mortar, his clothes soaked with dew, and the kind stars shining brightly
overhead. He was lying, bruised and shaken, among the heaped-up debris
of a ruined building.
He stood up and stared about him. There, in the shadowy distance, lay
the surrounding forest, and here, close at hand, stood the outline of
the village buildings. But, underfoot, beyond question, lay nothing but
the broken heaps of stones that betokened a building long since crumbled
to dust. Then he saw that the stones were blackened, and that great
wooden beams, half burnt, half rotten, made lines through the general
debris.
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