Or, if not quite so bad as a deliberate murderer, I was, at the very least, guilty of manslaughter.

And why?
Because I had not been able to overcome my wicked weakness.

I felt sick of life, of everything--especially of the mines.
"I can never return to the scene of the accident," I thought.
I groaned and tossed, but it was the torture of my conscience, and not of my aching limbs.

The doctor and others came in.
"How long shall I have to lie here ?" I asked.
"Not many days; no bones are broken.

Your head is injured and you are badly bruised, that's all.