What had next brought him back, clearly—though after how long?—was Mrs. Muldoon’s voice, coming to him from quite near, from so near that he seemed presently to see her as kneeling on the ground before him while he lay looking up at her; himself not wholly on the ground, but half-raised and upheld—conscious, yes, of tenderness of support and, more particularly, of a head pillowed in extraordinary softness and faintly refreshing¹ fragrance².  He considered, he wondered, his wit but half at his service; then another face intervened, bending more directly over him, and he finally knew that Alice Staverton had made her lap an ample and perfect cushion to him, and that she had to this end seated herself on the lowest degree of the staircase, the rest of his long person remaining stretched on his old black-and-white slabs³.  They were cold, these marble squares of his youth; but he somehow was not, in this rich return of consciousness—the most wonderful hour, little by little, that he had ever known, leaving him, as it did, so gratefully, so abysmally⁴ passive, and yet as with a treasure of intelligence waiting all round him for quiet appropriation⁵; dissolved, he might call it, in the air of the place and producing the golden glow of a late autumn afternoon.  He had come back, yes—come back from further away than any man but himself had ever travelled; but it was strange how with this sense what he had come back to seemed really the great thing, and as if his prodigious⁶ journey had been all for the sake of it.  Slowly but surely his consciousness grew, his vision of his state thus completing itself; he had been miraculously⁷ carried back—lifted and carefully borne as from where he had been picked up, the uttermost end of an interminable grey passage.  Even with this he was suffered to rest, and what had now brought him to knowledge was the break in the long mild motion.