So, after all, that gun at Manassas had never been mine; it had belonged to this man.

Who was this man?

A soldier, evidently.

What was his name?

I did not know.

Why did he sometimes wear a blue uniform?

He must be a Confederate spy; of course he is a Confederate spy.

My memory refused to abandon this man.  I had known that I should recover the Doctor, and I had supposed that the Doctor’s name would be the key to unlock all the past, so that my memory would be suddenly complete and continuous, but now I found the Doctor supplanted by a strange man whose name even I did not know, and who acted mysteriously, sometimes seeming to be a Confederate and at other times a Federal.  I must exert my will and get rid of this man:  he disturbs me; he is not real, perhaps.  I have eaten nothing; I have fever; perhaps this man is a creation of my fever.  I will get rid of him.

I forced the Doctor to appear.  This time he was sitting in an ambulance, but not alone.  The man was with him.  I banished the picture, and tried again.

Another scene.  The Doctor, and the man, and Willis lying hidden in a straw stack.  Ah!  Willis!  That name has come back.

Who is Willis?

I do not know; only Willis.

It is a mistake to be following up the man.  Can I not recall the Doctor without this disturbing shape?  I try hard, and the Doctor’s face flits by and vanishes before I can even tell its outline.

I forced the Doctor to appear and reappear; but he would remain an instant only and be gone; instead of him, this strange man persisted, and contrary to my will.

My heart misgave me.  Had I been following a delusion?  Was there no Dr. Khayme, after all, and worse than that, no Lydia?  Her face was again before me.  That look of care—­or worse than care, anxiety—­could it be mere fancy?  No; the face was the face of my fancy, but the look was its own.  I recognized the face, but the expression was not due to my thought or to my error; it was independent of me.

I saw the Doctor and Lydia and Willis and the Man!  Always the Man!  Lydia, even, could not lay the ghost of the strange Man who sometimes wore blue and sometimes gray.

Night fell.  I was posted as a vedette near the river.  There was nothing in my front.  The stars came out and the moon.  I thought of the moon at Chancellorsville, and of the moon at Gettysburg, and of my Captain, lying in a soldier’s grave in the far-off land of the enemy.  My brain was not clear.  I had a buzzing in my ears.  I doubted all reality.  My fancy bounded from this to that.  My nerves were all unstrung.  I felt upon the boundary edge of heaven and hell.  I knew enough to craze me should I learn no more.  I watched the moon; it took the form of Lydia’s face; a tree became the strange Man who would not forsake me.

Who was the Man?  He gave no clew to his identity.  He was mysterious.  His acts were irregular.  He must be imaginary only.  The others are real.  I know the Doctor and his name.  I know Lydia and her name.  I know Willis and his name.  The Man’s face and name are unknown; yet does he come unbidden and uppermost and always.