He was a mental outcast.
He went slowly to his tent and stretched himself on a blanket by the side of the snoring tall soldier.

In the darkness he saw visions of a thousand-tongued fear that would babble at his back and cause him to flee, while others were going coolly about their country's business.
He admitted that he would not be able to cope with this monster.

He felt that every nerve in his body would be an ear to hear the voices, while other men would remain stolid and deaf.
And as he sweated with the pain of these thoughts, he could hear low, serene sentences.

"I'll bid five." "Make it six." "Seven." "Seven goes." He stared at the red, shivering reflection of a fire on the white wall of his tent until, exhausted and ill from the monotony of his suffering, he fell asleep..