long vowel, and the vowel I had
also in Ki-yam; the lines converged every way toward Ki, or toward
K-h-a-y, pronounced Ki.

Again I tried repeatedly, using the long sound of i: "Gi-le, Ki-me,
Ki-me, Ki-me, Ki-me," and kept on repeating Ki-me, involuntarily holding
to the unfamiliar sound.

For a long time I worked without any result, and I became greatly
puzzled. Then a help came. The name was that of a doctor. I repeated
over and over, "Doctor Gay-le, Doctor Ka-me, Doctor Ka-mes, Doctor
Kay-ne, Doctor Gi-le, Doctor Ki-me, Doctor Ki-mes, Doctor Ki-yam." The
last name sounded nearly right.

The face of my dream was yet easily called up--a swarthy face with
bright black eyes and a great brow. I repeated all the words again, and
at each name I brought my will to bear and tried to fit the face to the
name: "Doctor Gay-le, they do not fit; Doctor Ka-me, they do not fit;
Doctor Kay-ne; no; Doctor Gi-le; still less Doctor Ki-me, Doctor Ki-me,
Doctor Ki-me."

The words riveted me. They did not satisfy me, yet they dominated all
other words. The strangeness of the name did not affect me; in fact, the
name was neither strange nor familiar; and just because the name did not
sound strange, I took courage and hope. I reasoned that such a name
ought to sound strange, and that it did not was cheering. I was on the
brink of something, I knew not what.

We stacked arms by the side of the road, and Ewell's corps marched by on
a road crossing ours; it took so long to go by that we were ordered
to bivouac.

My brain was in a stir. I asked myself why I should attach so great
importance to the recovery of one man's name, and I answered that this
one name was the clew to my past life, and was the beginning of my
future life; the recovery of one name would mean all recovery; I had
resolved to never abandon the pursuit of this name, and I felt convinced
that I should find it, and soon. What was to result I would risk; months
before, I had not had the courage to wish to know my past, but now I
would welcome change. I was wretched, alone in the world, tired of life;
I would hazard the venture. Then, too, I knew that if my former
condition should prove unfortunate or shameful, I still had the chance
to escape it--by being silent, if not in any other way. Nothing could be
much worse than my present state.

That afternoon and night we were on picket, having been thrown forward a
mile from the bivouac of the division. There was now but one