Stanley’s pace slackened. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream mysteriously ceased. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. They were now both in a state of unprecedented physical fitness. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence.
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