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.