After that Carrigan lived through an eternity of unrest, a life in
which he seemed powerless and yet was always struggling for
supremacy over things that were holding him down. There were
lapses in it, like the hours of oblivion that come with sleep, and
there were other times when he seemed keenly alive, yet unable to
move or act. The darkness gave way to flashes of light, and in
these flashes he began to see things, curiously twisted, fleeting,
and yet fighting themselves insistently upon his senses. He was
back in the hot sand again, and this time he heard the voices of
Jeanne Marie-Anne and Golden-Hair, and Golden-Hair flaunted a
banner in his face, a triangular pennon of black on which a huge
bear was fighting white Arctic wolves, and then she would run away
from him, crying out--"St. Pierre Boulain--St. Pierre Boulain--"
and the last he could see of her was her hair flaming like fire in
the sun. But it was always the other--the dark hair and dark eyes
--that came to him when the little devils returned to assault him
with their arrows. From somewhere she would come out of darkness
and frighten them away. He could hear her voice like a whisper in
his ears, and the touch of her hands comforted him and quieted his
pain.
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