He is stirred by fever as by the wind; he is choked with blood.

He writhes, and that shows me the beaten-down wings of his black cloak.
Close by, some of the wounded have cried out; and farther away one would say they are singing--beyond the low stakes so twisted and shriveled that they look as if guillotined.
He does not know what he is saying.

He does not even know that he is speaking, that his thoughts are coming out.

The night is torn into rags by sudden bursts; it fills again at random with clusters of flashes; and his delirium enters into my head.

He murmurs that logic is a thing of terrible chains, and that all things cling together.