As Ayrault's consciousness returned, he fancied he heard music.
Though distant, it was distinct, and seemed to ring from the
ether of space. Occasionally it sounded even more remote, but it
was rhythmical and continuous, inspiring and stirring him as
nothing that he had ever heard before. Finally, it was overcome
by the more vivid impressions upon his other senses, and he found
himself walking in the streets of his native city. It was
spring, and the trees were white with buds. The long shadows of
the late afternoon stretched across the way, but the clear sky
gave indication of prolonged twilight, and the air was warm and
balmy. Nature was filled with life, and seemed to be proclaiming
that the cold was past.
As he moved along the street he met a funeral procession.
"What a pity," he thought, "a man should die, with summer so near
at hand!"
He was also surprised at the keenness of his sight; for, inclosed
in each man's body, he saw the outline of his soul. But the dead
man's body was empty, like a cage without a bird. He also read
the thoughts in their minds.
"Now," said a large man in the carriage next the hearse, "I may
win her, since she is a widow.
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