occurred--he did not know what. He only knew that he was shot,
suffering, dying! He groaned, and even as he writhed in a spasm of
pain he saw her sitting on the sward beside him. He turned glazed eyes
on her. Her brown ones looked back into his with a great love and pity
in their depths.

"Oh, my dear," she whispered, "I know it seems terribly hard to you.
And because you think you suffer, it is almost as hard for you as if
you did. But you are not really hurt, you know. You are not suffering.
It is all in the dream. You are sound asleep, far, far away."

He forced a sardonic laugh from his stiff throat.

"Not this time," he managed to articulate. "Whatever the others may
have been, this is no dream. This is the real thing--and death!"

She smoothed the hair back from his damp brow with a beautiful,
caressing touch. He felt her fingers tremble.

"No," she said. "It is a dream, and almost over."

"Then will you stay with me," he gasped, "to the end?"

"Yes," she promised. "Try to bear it just a moment longer. Courage,
dear heart! for already you are waking--you are waking--_you--are--
awake!_"

He was, and it was daylight, and around him were the familiar objects
of his own room. He wiped his forehead, which was cold and wet. He
felt utterly exhausted.