His pulse was galloping.

With a sigh the little doctor drugged his tossing patient into troubled sleep.
Again through a cloud of flower-spotted purple shot now with gleams of light as from a camp fire, Brian drifted unquietly, conscious of odd and unrelated things, stars that turned to eyes, a moonbeam that broke upon a pine-bough and fell in a shower of moon-silvered tears; in the tears a face that turned perversely to a pansy.

Then something snapped and crackled sharply and he sat beside a camp fire, conscious of an indefinable fusing within him.

Beyond in a curling milk-white mist lay the pansy, half a flower--half a face.

It floated toward him, sometimes part of the smoke from his fire, sometimes but a flower-shadow in the cloud of purple.