I had stowed it away
(it was a favorite perfume with me, because it was so associated with
my Arabian Nights' stories) upon a ledge over the door, where it had
rested undisturbed while the house was tenanted, and had been now
probably dislodged by rats. But I half fancied that this odor which
impregnated the air of the whole house was the essence of that
atmosphere in which, as a child, I had communicated with Burckhardt and
Belzoni,--and that, expelled by the solid, practical, Occidental
atmosphere of the last few years, it had flowed back again, in these
last silent months, in anticipation of my return.
Like a prudent householder, I made the tour of the house with a light I
had provided myself with, and mentally made memoranda of repairs,
alterations, etc., for rendering it habitable. My last visit was to be
to the garret, where many of my books yet remained. As I passed once
more through the parlor, on my way thither, a ray of light from my
raised lamp fell upon the wall that I had thought blank, and a majestic
face started suddenly from the darkness. So sudden was the apparition,
that for the moment I was startled, till I remembered that there had
formerly been a picture in that place, and I stopped to examine it.
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