What folly!

But the other Jones asks also, “Don’t you know me?” and then another picture comes before me, but dimly, for it seems almost in the night:  Jones—­this new Jones—­is standing near a prostrate horse as black as jet and is prisoner in the hands of Union men, and the other Jones is there, too, and I see that he is joyful that Jones is caught.  What utter folly!  Is everybody to be named Jones?  I have followed one Jones and have found two—­possibly three.  Who is the true Jones?  Is there any true Jones?  Has my fevered brain but conjured up a picture, or series of pictures, of events that never had existence?  Why should one Jones be glad that another Jones was caught?  I give up this new Jones.

Now I was thinking without method—­in a daze.  Every line had resulted in an end beyond which was a blank, or else confusion.  I gave myself up to mere revery.

Somehow, I had trust; I felt that I was at a beginning which was also an end.  I had come far.  I had recovered the name of Dr. Khayme, and of Lydia, of Sergeant Jake Willis, of Jones, with possibly another Jones; with these names I ought to work out the whole enigma.  I knew that Jones was the man who had broken his gun; the man who had helped Willis; the man who had been under the bursting shell on the hill.  Yes, and another thought,—­the man who had been wounded there.

I knew that Lydia was the Doctor’s daughter.  A few more relations found would untangle everything.  But how to find more?  I must think.  Yet thinking seemed weak.  I believed that if I could quit thinking, the thing would come of itself.  Yet how to quit thinking?  I remembered that I had received lessons upon the power of the will from Captain Haskell and ... from ... somebody ... who?—­Why, Doctor Khayme, of course.

And now another new thought, or fancy.  What relation, if any, could there be between the Captain and the Doctor?  In a confused way I groped in the tangle of this question until I became completely lost again, having gained, however, the knowledge that Dr. Khayme had taught me concerning the will.

I lay back and closed my eyes, to try to banish thought; the effort was vain.  I opened my eyes, and dreamed.  I could recall the Doctor’s dark face, his large brow, his bright eyes, and a pipe—­yes, a pipe, with its carven bowl showing a strange head; and I could recall more easily the Captain’s long jaw, and triangle of a face, and even the slight lisp with which he spoke.  What relationship had these two men?  If Captain Haskell had ever known Dr. Khayme, should I not have heard him speak of the Doctor?  I had known the Captain since I had known the Doctor; where had I known the Doctor?  Where had I known him first?  He had been my teacher.  Where?  I remembered—­in Charleston!  But why does the Doctor associate with Willis, who is distinctly a Federal soldier, and with Jones, who is sometimes a Federal?  I can see the Doctor in an ambulance—­and in a tent; he must be a surgeon.