The chloroform probably did relieve him, for he thought no more of the uneasiness in his face; but he was not only not at all sleepy, but every sense seemed wide awake,—­wide awake to its utmost capacity of perception.  It was as if a misty veil were suddenly removed from before his eyes, and he saw, what indeed had always been there, but what in his abstraction or inattention he had never before noticed.  For instance, he noticed at once that Martin had not quite closed the curtains, but had left an inch or two open, and the window open besides.  The air, however, had grown soft, and the wind must have gone down, for it did not stir the drapery.  He looked again, to be certain he was right.  Yes,—­there was an inch clear, where the wind might come in, if it liked.  Martin was growing blind or stupid.  However, he did not so much think that.  On the whole, it was more likely that his own senses were sharpening.  That would be a good thing, though,—­to be wiser and sharper and clearer-sighted than all the rest of the world!  He would like that advantage.  And why might he not have it?  Already he perceived a marked difference from his usual sensuous condition.  It was unnatural, preternatural,—­and yet, a state which could be produced at will.  It was easily done.  Just homoeopathy, in fact.  A little sniff, a minute dose, and he could see and hear with a miraculous clearness; but people would take a dozen, and then they grew stupid.

He looked again around the room.  Was it fancy, now?  Perhaps it was.  It was not likely the Madonna was winking in a heretic’s parlor.  Besides, it was the same sort of no-motion he had watched many a time in the twilight, when the door seemed to swing backward and forward in the dusky air, following the dilation and contraction of his own eyes.  He tried it now on the Madonna.  He opened his eyes as widely as possible, and the drooping lids of the picture evidently half-raised themselves from the dark, soft orbs.  He nearly closed his own, and hers bent again in serenest contemplation.

He looked at the bronze figure of the “Dying Stork,” which was placed below the picture, and started to see that it moved also, and with a strange, unnatural, galvanic sort of movement, like the “animated oat,” which moves when placed on the hand after being warmed a moment in the mouth.  The legs sprung against the reeds and flags, in the same way.

Lastly, he looked at the bas-relief which stood near, leaning against the wall.  It was very, very strange.  Had the old fable of Pygmalion a truth in it, then?  And could the same genius that created also give life and warmth to its productions?  Beneath the marble he could see the soft, living pulse, distinctly; and the wind that blew over the mountains, beyond the river, ruffled the waves about the tiny boat.  Even the star above the child’s head sparkled in the depths of the sky.

Fred was delighted.  “It is enchantment!” he said.  But no,—­it was one of those miracles that have not yet become commonplace.  The poetic life that his perceptions were now able to enjoy, in inanimate nature, would be such a perpetual gratification to his taste,—­such an incentive to explorations and discoveries!  He could not felicitate himself enough.