I looked at him, and said nothing. "I know just what you are thinking," said he, smiling; "you are thinking that one of us two is crazy." "Yes," said I. "But you are wrong, at least in regard to yourself. You are suffering a little in the head, but there is no longer any danger to your brain at all." "I think I am dreaming," said I. "Well," said he, "continue to think so; that will do no harm." He went away, but soon returned--I say soon, but I may be wrong in that. "How do you get on with that dream of yours?" he asked; "what have you dreamed while I wan gone?" "Confusion," said I; "nothing but confusion." "If a man is dreaming, will a sharp pain awake him?" "I suppose so." "Well, let me try it," and he opened his lancet. I shrank, and he laughed. "You are beginning to understand that many things have happened since you were in Aiken?" I made a motion of my head--moaning half assent. "You will end by remembering your broken experience," he said, "but it may take some time. Your case is more stubborn than I thought." "How did I get hurt?" I asked. "You were knocked down," said he. "Who did it?" I asked. "Don't precisely know," said he; "but it makes no difference which one did it; we all know that you were in the right." "There was a quarrel?" I asked. "A big one," said he; "I think it best to relieve your curiosity at once by telling you what has happened in the world. If I did not, you would make yourself worse by fancying too much, and you would become more and more bewildered. I can put you right. But can you make up your mind to accept the situation as it is, and bear up in the hope that you will come right in the end?" I did not reply. I do not know what feeling was uppermost in my mind. It was not anxiety, for my interest in others was pure blank. It was not fear, for he had assured me that my physical condition was more favourable. "Yes," he continued; "it is best to tell you the truth, and the whole truth, lest your fancy conjure up things that do not exist. After all, there is nothing in it but what you might have reasonably expected when you were in Aiken in eighteen fifty-nine." "How long have I been in this condition?" I asked. "This condition? Only since yesterday morning." "Then why do you say eighteen fifty-nine?" "Your present condition began yesterday; but it is also true--or at least seems to be true--that you do not remember your experience from October eighteen fifty-nine until yesterday." "You mean for me to believe that eighteen fifty-nine has all gone?" "Yes--all gone--in fact, this is summer weather." I remembered the heat of the past day, and the thunder. Yet it was hard for me to believe that I had been unconscious for six months--but, no; he was not saying I had been unconscious for six months--nobody could live through such a state--he was telling me that I could not remember what I had known six months ago. "What month is this?" I asked. "June," said he; "June 4th."