Bit by bit, like a doom came the necessity to know. He was hit in the
head. It was only a vague surmise at first. But in the swinging of the
pendulum of pain, swinging ever nearer and nearer, to touch him into an
agony of consciousness and a consciousness of agony, gradually the
knowledge emerged--he must be hit in the head--hit on the left brow; if
so, there would be blood--was there blood?--could he feel blood in his
left eye? Then the clanging seemed to burst the membrane of his brain,
like death-madness.

Was there blood on his face? Was hot blood flowing? Or was it dry blood
congealing down his cheek? It took him hours even to ask the question:
time being no more than an agony in darkness, without measurement.

A long time after he had opened his eyes he realized he was seeing
something--something, something, but the effort to recall what was too
great. No, no; no recall!

Were they the stars in the dark sky? Was it possible it was stars in the
dark sky? Stars? The world? Ah, no, he could not know it! Stars and the
world were gone for him, he closed his eyes. No stars, no sky, no world.
No, No! The thick darkness of blood alone. It should be one great lapse
into the thick darkness of blood in agony.

Death, oh, death! The world all blood, and the blood all writhing with
death. The soul like the tiniest little light out on a dark sea, the sea
of blood. And the light guttering, beating, pulsing in a windless storm,
wishing it could go out, yet unable.

There had been life. There had been Winifred and his children. But the