"I begin to feel that, too. Then--maybe the black spells will go away."

"They must or--or you'll lose me," faltered Lenore. "If you go on
killing your Huns over and over--it'll be I who will die."

She carried with her to her room a haunting sense of Dorn's reception of
her last speech. Some tremendous impression it made on him, but whether
of fear of domination or resolve, or all combined, she could not tell.
She had weakened in mention of the return of his phantoms. But neither
Dorn nor her father ever guessed that, once in her room, she collapsed
from sheer feminine horror at the prospect of seeing Dorn change from a
man to a gorilla, and to repeat the savage orgy of remurdering his Huns.
That was too much for Lenore. She who had been invincible in faith, who
could stand any tests of endurance and pain, was not proof against a
spectacle of Dorn's strange counterfeit presentment of the actual and
terrible killing he had performed with a bayonet.

For days after that she was under a strain which she realized would
break her if it was not relieved. It appeared to be solely her fear of
Dorn's derangement. She was with him almost all the daylight hours,
attending him, watching him sleep, talking a little to him now and then,
seeing with joy his gradual improvement, feeling each day the slow
lifting of the shadow over him, and yet every minute of every hour she
waited in dread for the return of Dorn's madness. It did not come. If it
recurred at night she never was told. Then after a week a more
pronounced change for the better in Dorn's condition marked a lessening
of the strain upon Lenore. A little later it was deemed safe to dismiss
the nurse. Lenore dreaded the first night vigil. She lay upon a couch in
Dorn's room and never closed her eyes. But he slept, and his slumber
appeared sound at times, and then restless, given over to dreams. He
talked incoherently, and moaned; and once appeared to be drifting into a
nightmare, when Lenore awakened him. Next day he sat up and said he was
hungry. Thereafter Lenore began to lose her dread.

* * * * *

"Well, son, let's talk wheat," said Anderson, cheerily, one beautiful
June morning, as he entered Dorn's room.

"Wheat!" sighed Dorn, with a pathetic glance at his empty sleeve. "How
can I even do a man's work again in the fields?"

Lenore smiled bravely at him. "You will sow more wheat than ever, and
harvest more, too."

"I should smile,"