called the other. This second vision that he saw was like a
radiant bit of the sun, her hair all aflame with the fire of it
and her face a different sort of face. He was always glad when she
went away and Pretty Eyes came back.

To David Carrigan this interesting experience in his life might
have covered an hour, a day, or a month. Or a year for that
matter, for he seemed to have had an indefinite association with
Pretty Eyes. He had known her for a long time and very intimately,
it seemed. Yet he had no memory of the long fight in the hot sun,
or of the river, or of the singing warblers, or of the inquisitive
sandpiper that had marked out the line which his enemy's last
bullet had traveled. He had entered into a new world in which
everything was vague and unreal except that vision of dark hair,
dark eyes, and pale, beautiful face. Several times he saw it with
marvelous clearness, and each time he drifted away into darkness
again with the sound of a voice growing fainter and fainter in his
ears.

Then came a time of utter chaos and soundless gloom. He was in a
pit, where even his subconscious self was almost dead under a
crushing oppression. At last a star began to glimmer in this pit,
a star pale and indistinct and a vast distance away. But it crept
steadily up through the eternity of darkness, and the nearer it
came, the less there was of the blackness of night. From a star it
grew into a sun, and with the sun came dawn. In that dawn he heard
the singing of a bird, and the bird was just over his head. When
Carrigan opened his eyes, and understanding came to him, he found
himself under the silver birch that belonged to the wood warbler.