All this is fancy--imagination--conscience.

I've no work, no duty, no ideal, no hope--and my mind is obsessed, thronged with images.

And these images naturally are of the men with whom I have dealt.

I can't forget them.
They come back to me, hour after hour; and when my tortured mind grows weak, then maybe I'm not just right till the mood wears out and lets me sleep." So he reasoned as he lay down in his comfortable camp.

The night was star-bright above the canon-walls, darkly shadowing down between them.
The insects hummed and chirped and thrummed a continuous thick song, low and monotonous.