The negro man came.  “Some soup,” said the doctor.

The soup was good.  I felt better—­almost strong.  The doctor’s friends sat by, saying nothing.  The doctor smiled to see me take the soup somewhat greedily.

“Talk to him, Captain,” said the doctor.

“My friend,” said one of the men, “allow me to ask if you know where you are.”

“I know what I’ve been told,” said I.

“You must be good enough to believe it,” said he; “you believe it or you doubt it.  Do you still doubt it?”

“Yes,” I said boldly.

“I can’t blame you,” said he.  His voice was low and firm—­a gentleman’s voice; a voice to inspire confidence; a voice which I thought, vaguely, I had heard before.

“Yet,” he continued, “to doubt it you must be making some theory of your own; what is it, please?”

He spoke with a slight lisp.  I noticed it, and felt pleased that I had got to a stage in which, such a trifle was of any interest.

“The only possible theories are that I am dreaming and—­”

“Be good enough to tell me another.”

He had not interrupted me; I had hesitated.

“I know!” exclaimed the doctor; “he thinks I am concealing worse by inventing a war with all its et ceteras.  His supposition does me credit in one way, but in another it does me great injury.  Although I have given him my word of honour that I am concealing nothing, he still hangs to his notion that I am lying to him in order to keep from him a truth that might be dangerous to his health.  I shall be compelled to call him out when he gets well.  Will you act for me, Aleck?”

“With great pleasure,” said the man addressed; “but perhaps your friend will make the amende when he knows the injustice of his suspicions.”

“Have I told either of you what I have said to Jones about the war?” asked the doctor.

“Certainly not; so far as I have the right to speak,” said the Captain.  The other man shook his head.

“Then tell Jones the conditions here.”

“Oh, Doctor, don’t be so hard on me!  I accept all you say, although it is accepting impossibilities.”

“Then, about your dream theory,” said the Captain; “would you object to my asking if you have ever had such a dream—­so vivid and so long?”

“Not that I know of,” said I.

“You think that Dr. Frost and my brother and I are mere creatures of your fancy?”

The candles did not give a great light.  I could not clearly see his features.  He came nearer, moving his stool to my side.  My head was below him, so that I was looking up at his face.  He was a young man.  His face was almost a triangle, with its long jaw.

“I believe that dreams are not very well understood, even by the wisest,” he said.  “Do me the kindness to confess that your present experience, if a dream, is more wonderful than any other dream you have had.”