A face bent over me. It was a man's face. I had seen it in my dream ... then I was not yet awake? I was still dreaming? Or, if I was awake, maybe I had not dreamed? Can this man and these men and this tent and this pain all be real? No; certainly not. When I awake I shall laugh at this dream; I shall write it out, because it is so complex and strange.
The man, said, "You feel better now, don't you?"
I tried to reply. I could not speak, though my lips moved. The man brought water, and I drank. He sat by me, and put his fingers on my wrist.
"You'll be all right in a day or two," he said. I hoped that his words would come true; then I wondered how, in, a dream, I could hope for a dream to end. He went away.
I tried hard to think, but the effort increased the pain in my head. I felt cramped, as though I had lain long in one posture. I tried to turn, but was able only to stretch my legs and arms.
The man came again. He looked at me; then, he knelt down and raised my head. I felt better. He pulled something behind me, and then went away, leaving me propped up.
Daylight was coming. The light of the candle contrasted but feebly against the new light. I could see the pallets. On each was a man. There were five. I counted,--one, two, three, four, five; five sick men. I wondered if they were dreaming also, and if they were all sick in the head ... no; no; such fantasy shows but more strongly that all this horrible thing is unreal.
I counted again,--one, two, three, four, five, six; how is that?
Oh, I see; I have counted myself, this time.
Myself? What part or lot have I with these others? Who are they? Who am I? I know nothing--nothing.