“I think you belong to Gregg’s brigade, very likely to Gregg’s regiment.  I shall be obliged to leave you now, but you need something first.”

He gave me another bitter draught of I know not what, and went out of the tent.

To say what I thought would be impossible.  I thought everything and nothing.

Again that thunder.

The best I had in this bewilderment was trust in the doctor.  I believed he would clear up this fog in my brain; for that my brain was confused I could no longer doubt.  The doctor was hopeful—­that was my comfort.  He had given me medicine every time I felt worse; he was certainly a good doctor.  I felt soothed:  perhaps the medicine was helping me.

When I awoke, the sun was low.  The doctor was by me.

“You have been talking in your sleep,” he said.

“What did I say?” My brain now seemed a little clearer.

“Nothing of consequence.  You mentioned the names of several persons—­you said something about Butler, and something also about Brooks and Sumner.”

“Was Brooks from Aiken?”

“What Brooks?”

“I don’t remember,” I said.

“I was sure that you belong to a South Carolina regiment,” he said.

“No, Doctor; I don’t belong to any regiment, and I don’t understand your talk about regiments.  Why should there be regiments?”

“Do you see these men?” asked the doctor, pointing to the pallets; “they have been wounded in battle.”

I looked at him closely.  He seemed sober and sane, although his words were wild.

“We are at war,” he continued.  “Tell me,” he added suddenly, “tell me what day of the month this is.”

“The nineteenth,” said I.

“How do you know?”

“Because I read yesterday the Augusta Constitutionalist of the eighteenth,” said I.

“Now that’s the kind of answer I like,” said he; “your head is getting well.  Eighteenth of what?”

“October; I think this is very warm weather for October,” said I.

“It is indeed,” said he.

“I suppose there was a storm somewhere,” said I; “I heard thunder.”

“I did not hear any thunder,” said he.

“Then maybe it was part of my dream,” I said.

“What else did you dream?”

“I dreamed that I saw a dead man carried out of the tent.”

“Can you trust me?” asked the doctor.

“Yes.”

“How old did you say you are?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Do you know in what year you were born?”

“Yes; to be sure—­thirty-eight.”

“Thirty-eight and twenty-one make how much?”

“Fifty-nine,” said I.

“I think I’d better give you some medicine,” said he.

I took the draught.  In a very short time I began to feel strangely calm—­in fact, almost stupid.  The doctor sat by my side.

“You can trust me?”

“Yes.”