d not
believe he had closed his eyes. He had not. Out of the blackness sight
slowly emerged again. And someone was knocking. Quickly, he saw the
blood-disgfigured face of his Captain, which he hated. And he held
himself still with horror. Yet, deep inside him, he knew that it was so,
the Captain should be dead. But the physical delirium got hold of him.
Someone was knocking. He lay perfectly still, as if dead, with fear. And
he went unconscious.

When he opened his eyes again, he started, seeing something creeping
swiftly up a tree-trunk. It was a little bird. And the bird was
whistling overhead. Tap-tap-tap----it was the small, quick bird rapping
the tree-trunk with its beak, as if its head were a little round hammer.
He watched it curiously. It shifted sharply, in its creeping fashion.
Then, like a mouse, it slid down the bare trunk. Its swift creeping sent
a flash of revulsion through him. He raised his head. It felt a great
weight. Then, the little bird ran out of the shadow across a still patch
of sunshine, its little head bobbing swiftly, its white legs twinkling
brightly for a moment. How neat it was in its build, so compact, with
pieces of white on its wings. There were several of them. They were so
pretty--but they crept like swift, erratic mice, running here and there
among the beech-mast.

He lay down again exhausted, and his consciousness lapsed. He had a
horror of the little creeping birds. All his blood seemed to be darting
and creeping in his head. And yet he could not move.

He came to with a further ache of exhaustion. There was the pain in his
head, and the horrible sickness, and his inability to move. He had
never been ill in his life. He did not know where he was or what he
was. Probably he had got sunstroke. Or what else?--he had silenced the
Captain for ever--some time ago--oh, a long time ago. There had been
blood on his face, and his eyes had turned upwards. It was all right,
somehow. It was peace. But now he had got beyond himself. He had never
been here before. Was it life, or not life? He was by himself. They
were in a big, bright place, those others, and he was outside. The town,
all the country, a big bright place of light: and he was outside, here,
in the darkened open beyond, where each thing existed alone. But they
would all have to come out there sometime, those others. Little, and
left behind him, they all were. There had been father and mother and
sweetheart. What did they all matte