“You will not yield,” said he.

I closed my eyes, and thought of Lydia, and of my father, and of Willis, and of Jones, and of nothing connectedly.

“Do you remember,” he asked, “the first time you came with me to the little cottage in Charleston?”

I nodded.

“At that time you were passing a crisis.  I would not tell you to will.  Do you remember it?”

Again I nodded assent.

“To will at another’s dictation is impossible.  The will is free.  If I should tell you to will any certain thing, it would do no good.  All that I can do is to say that the will is free.”

His finger was yet on my lips.  My mind had taken in all that he said, although my thought was giddy.  He was clearly right.  If I should surrender once, it would be hard to recover my former ground.  Yet I doubted my power to will.  The doubt brought terror.  I wished that he would speak again.

“The power of habit is not lost in a moment.  It may be unobserved, or dormant even, but it is not destroyed.  No man accustomed to keep himself in subjection can fail to distinguish temptation from surrender.”

How well he could read me!

“The desire to will may momentarily fail through bodily weakness, or through fear—­which is the same thing.  But he who can will when he desires to will not, conquers himself doubly.”

I put his hand away and rose.

“What time is it, Doctor?” I asked.

“Half-past ten,” said he, without looking at his watch.

“I must report to General Morell at eleven,” I said.

“We must not waste time, then,” he said; “who accompanies you?”

“I go alone.”

He looked at me searchingly, then grasped my hand.  He understood.

“You have strengthened your will; good.  Now I will strengthen your body.”

He went to a small chest, from which he took a flask.  He poured a spoonful of liquid into a glass.  I drank.

“It will be slow and last long,” said he.

He brought me the gray clothing and helped me to dress; he turned the pockets of my blue clothes and selected such things as I needed.

“Do you go armed?” he asked.

“Yes; apparently.  I shall take the Enfield—­unloaded.”

He brought the cartridge-box and the canteen; he brought the haversack, and put food in it.

Said he, “I wish you would humour one of my whims.”

“Anything you wish, Doctor.”

“Put the palmetto buttons on your coat.”

It was soon done.  I was passive; he was doing the work.

“Now,” he said, “one other thing.  Take this pencil, and this book.  Turn to May 23d.  I will dictate.”

It was a small blank-book, a little soiled, with the pages divided into sections, which were headed with dates for the year 1862.

“Turn to May 23d,” he had said.

“I have it,” said I.