When faintly something began to struggle in the darkness, a consciousness
of himself, he was aware of a great load and a clanging sound. To have
known the moment of death! And to be forced, before dying, to review it.
So, fate, even in death.
There was a resounding of pain. It seemed to sound from the outside of
his consciousness: like a loud bell clanging very near. Yet he knew it
was himself. He must associate himself with it. After a lapse and a new
effort, he identified a pain in his head, a large pain that clanged and
resounded. So far he could identify himself with himself. Then there was
a lapse.
After a time he seemed to wake up again, and waking, to know that he was
at the front, and that he was killed. He did not open his eyes. Light was
not yet his. The clanging pain in his head rang out the rest of his
consciousness. So he lapsed away from consciousness, in unutterable sick
abandon of life.
Bit by bit, like a doom came the necessity to know. He was hit in the
head. It was only a vague surmise at first. But in the swinging of the
pendulum of pain, swinging ever nearer and nearer, to touch him into an
agony of consciousness and a consciousness of agony, gradually the
knowledge emerged--he must be hit in the head--hit on the left brow; if
so, there would be blood--was there blood?--could he feel blood in his
left eye? Then the clanging seemed to burst the membrane of his brain,
like death-madness.
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