Methought the apartment only was changed, being of different proportions and dimensions.
I thought of Bedreddin Hassan, transported in his sleep from Cairo to the gates of Damascus.

Had a Genius stooped his dark wing down the storm to whose stress I had succumbed, and gathering me from the church-steps, and "rising high into the air," as the eastern tale said, had he borne me over land and ocean, and laid me quietly down beside a hearth of Old England?
But no; I knew the fire of that hearth burned before its Lares no more--it went out long ago, and the household gods had been carried elsewhere.
The bonne turned again to survey me, and seeing my eyes wide open, and, I suppose, deeming their expression perturbed and excited, she put down her knitting.

I saw her busied for a moment at a little stand; she poured out water, and measured drops from a phial: glass in hand, she approached me.

What dark-tinged draught might she now be offering?
what Genii-elixir or Magi-distillation?
It was too late to inquire--I had swallowed it passively, and at once.
A tide of quiet thought now came gently caressing my brain; softer and softer rose the flow, with tepid undulations smoother than balm.

The pain of weakness left my limbs, my muscles slept.