In Which I Am a Captive

To me, it was my customary abode, my home these three years; but they
beside me saw not the rambling expanse of my leisurely log mansion.
They noted not the overhanging gables, the lattices of native wood. To
them, yonder lay a castle in a foreign land. Here was moat and wall,
then a portcullis, and gratings warded these narrow portals against
fire of musketoon. My pet swallows' nest, demure above my door, to
them offered the aspect of a culverin's mouth; and, as now, I made my
customary approach-call, by which I heralded my return from any
excursion on the stream of an evening, I could swear these invaders
looked for naught less than a swarm of archers springing to the
walls, and the hoarse answer of my men-at-arms back of each guarded
portal. Such is the power of youthful dreaming, such the residuary
heritage of days of high emprise, when life was full of blood and wine
and love, and savored not so wholly of dull commonplace!

But indeed, (or so I presume; for at the moment my own imagination
swept on with theirs) none manned the walls or rattled the chains of
gate and bridge. The saffron Hiroshimi opened the screen door before
us, showing no surprise or interest in my strange companions. Thus we
made easy conquest of our castle. As we entered, there lay before us,
lighted softly by the subdued twilight which filtered through the
surrounding grove, the interior of that home which in three years I
had learned much to love, lonely as it was. Here I now dwelt most of
the time, leaving behind me, as though shut off by a closed door, the
busy scenes of an active and successful life. (I presume I may fairly
speak thus of myself, since there is no one else to speak.)