My left behaved decently enough, but my right
was a rebel. I felt a personal fury against it, as though I
said to it: "Ah! but I'll punish you when I get back!" I
with all my mental consciousness "willed" it to remain on
the handle. It slipped. I drove it back. It slipped further,
it was almost gone.... With a supreme effort I drove it back
again, "I _will_ fall off," said my hand. "You shall
_not_," said I. "I have!" cried my hand triumphantly.
"Back!" I swore, driving it.
We were now, I believe, both stumbling along, the wounded
man pitching from side to side. Of the rest of our journey I
have the most confused memory. The firing had no longer any
effect upon me. I was thinking of my rebellious hand, my
aching heel, and the irritation of my trousers clustered
about my legs. "Another step and I shall fall!" I
thought.... "I shall sleep." I heard, from a great distance
as it seemed, the soldier's "Na .
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