So they bandaged poor ’Gene’s head in such a way that his eyes were covered. What difference could seeing make to a half-wit? How were those doctors to know how much more the blessed sunshine meant to this deaf man than it could possibly mean to them? And then ’Gene’s mind suddenly cleared. His head was racked by pain and the roaring still sounded in his ears, but he remembered back to the moment before the accident—and now he found himself suddenly helpless, in the darkness. He forgot the usual caution of the deaf and shouted! The nurses came running and tried to make him understand, but a new terror possessed him. He tore at the bandages which covered his eyes, but strong hands held him back; he fought with all his power, lying there in the darkness and the silence, but how were the nurses to understand that he was only fighting for the sunshine? None of their explanations pacified him, so they strapped his arms securely to the bed and held him a prisoner. Who knows what their report might have been? ’Gene Wilson tells me that a full thousand years of torment were crowded for him in the next half-hour. He thinks that Dante missed one act in his description of life in the infernal regions! ’Gene says that frightful shapes stepped out of the shadows and seemed to lead him along a lonely road, up close to a great house with transparent sides through which he could look upon the grotesque shapes which dwelt therein. Part of his mind seemed to know that it was the home of insanity. Faces peered at him through the windows; some stared in a stupor of melancholy, others showed grinning deviltry or hateful sneering, and all were waiting to welcome him! And all around poor ’Gene were kindly souls eager to help him and to draw him away from the awful place, but he could not make them understand that he was not insane—only deaf. “You may believe it or not,” says ’Gene, going on with his story, “but as I stood there struggling to get rid of those shapes at my sides my mind searched for a strong, sane picture which should counteract the spell of the evil ones. Suddenly there came to me the Twenty-third Psalm, which as a boy I had committed to memory. It had been lying forgotten at the back of my mind, but at that awful moment it returned complete and distinct. I lay there quietly, repeating the words over and over. “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me. Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.” I told ’Gene that here was evidence of the subconscious mind throwing up something which had been buried deep into it years before.