The last two verses of the song kept drowning his sense of the actual, and he was swayed by the superstition of bygone ancestors: "Whereaway goes my lad--tell me, has he gone alone?
Never harsh word did I speak, never hurt I gave; Strong he was and beautiful; like a heron he has flown Hereaway, hereaway will I make my grave.
"When once more the lad I loved hereaway, hereaway, Comes to lay his hand in mine, kiss me on the brow, I will whisper down the wind, he will weep to hear me say-- 'Whereaway, whereaway goes my lover now ?'" He went to bed again, but sleep would not come.

The verses of the lament kept singing in his brain.

He tossed from side to side, he sought to control himself, but it was of no avail.

Suddenly he remembered the bed of boughs he had made for himself at the place where Kitty had had her meeting with the Young Doctor the previous day.

Before he was shot he used to sleep in the open in the summer-time.