My head was bandaged, as I discovered when I turned it to look around.
The walls were not the log walls of our lodge, chinked with moss and
topped by a bark roof. On the contrary they were grander than the inside
of St. Regis church where I took my first communion, though that was
built of stone. These walls were paneled, as I learned afterward to call
that noble finishing, and ornamented with pictures, and crystal sockets
for candles. The use of the crystal sockets was evident, for one shaded
wax light burned near me. The ceiling was not composed of wooden beams
like some Canadian houses, but divided itself into panels also,
reflecting the light with a dark rosy shining. Lace work finer than a
priest's white garments fluttered at the windows.

I had dived early in the afternoon, and it was night. Instead of finding
myself still stripped for swimming, I had a loose robe around me, and a
coverlet drawn up to my armpits. The couch under me was by no means of
hemlock twigs and skins, like our bunks at home: but soft and rich. I
wondered if I had died and gone to heaven; and just then the Virgin
moved past my head and stood looking down at me. I started to jump out
of a window, but felt so little power to move that I only twitched, and
pretended to be asleep, and watched her as we sighted game, with eyes
nearly shut. She had a poppet of a child on one arm that sat up instead
of leaning against her shoulder, and looked at me, too. The poppet had a
cap on its head, and was dressed in lace, and she wore a white dress
that let her neck and arms out, but covered her to the ground. This was
remarkable, as the Indian women covered their necks and arms, and wore
their petticoats short. I could see this image breathe, which was a
marvel, and the color moving under her white skin. Her eyes seemed to go
through you and search all the veins, sending a shiver of pleasure down
your back.