better? . . . He seemed to see a shipwreck,—not the one in which he had been somewhat intimately concerned—but a shipwreck of quaint, archaic galleys, whose high decks swarmed with oddly cloaked men, wearing high, peaked caps; feet and legs were bound with queer, sandal-like affairs nearly to the knee. He perceived struggling bodies in the swirling, boiling waters—one picture swiftly flashing over the next—and then he saw straggling ones beating a difficult way to a rocky, inhospitable coast. What were all these kaleidoscopic pictures? He seemed to see deep curving shores between stern promontories, with woods growing to the waters' edge, and a recessed harbor guarded by the jutting cliffs . . . Where did this all take place?—this queer phastasmagoria? Where? Where? He struggled for recollection . . .
He seemed to see a camp made by these drenched, half-drowned mariners; he saw fire kindled—by what agency, he had no idea. He saw one of the band, who seemed
