He awakened finally with a cry, brushing from before his eyes a mass of yellow hair that a dark hand shook in his face.
He sat up, looked about a moment, and was on his feet again to the south, walking in the full glare of the sun, with his shadow now straight behind him.

He went unsteadily at first, but soon felt new vigour from his rest.
He walked another hour, then turned, and was again disappointed--it was such a little distance; yet he knew now he must be too far out to find his way back when the madness came.

So it was with a little sigh of contentment that he lay down again to rest or to take what might come.
Again he lay with his head on his arm in the scorching sands, with his hat above his face, and again his dreams alternated with consciousness of the desolation about him--alternated and mingled so that he no longer knew when he did not sleep.

And again he was tortured to wakefulness, to thirst, and to heat, by the yellow hair brandished before him.
He sat up until he was quite awake, and then sank back upon the sand again, relieved to find that he felt too weak to walk further.

His mind had become suddenly cleared so that he seemed to see only realities, and those in their just proportions.