“Dr. Abbott once told me that my case was not entirely unique,” said I; “but I thought he said it only to comfort me.”

“There is nothing new under the sun,” said Dr. Khayme; “we have such cases in the records of more than, one ancient writer.  Averroes himself clearly refers to such a case.”

“He must have lived a long time ago,” said I, “judging from the sound of his name; and I doubt that he would have compared well with, our people.”

“But more remarkable things are told by the prophets—­even your own prophets.  The mental changes undergone by Saul of Tarsus, by John on Patmos, by Nabuchodonosor, and by many others, are not less wonderful than, yours.”

“They were miracles,” said I.

“What is miracle?” asked the Doctor, but continued without waiting for me to reply; “more wonderful changes have happened and do happen every year to men’s minds than this which has happened to yours; men lose their minds utterly for a time, and then recover their faculties entirely; men lose their identity, so to speak; men can be changed in an hour, by the use of a drug, into different creatures, if we are to judge by the record their own consciousness gives them.”

“I cannot doubt my own senses,” said I; “my changes come upon me without a drug and in a moment.”

“If you will read Sir William Hamilton, you will find authentic records which will forever relieve you of the belief that your condition is unparalleled.  It may be unique in that phase of it which I hope will prove valuable; but as to its being the one only case of the general—­”

“I do not dispute there having been cases as strange as mine,” I interrupted; “your word for that is enough; but you ought to tell me why you insist on the possibility of a cure and the usefulness of the condition at the same time.  If the condition may prove useful, why change it?”

“There are many things in nature,” said the Doctor, seriously, “there are many things in nature which show their greatest worth only at the moment of their extinction.  Your seeming imperfection of memory is, I repeat, but a relaxation of one of its functions in order that another function may be strengthened—­and all for a purpose.”

“What is that purpose?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Why can you not?”

“Because,” said he, “the manner in which you will prove the usefulness of your power is yet to be developed.  Generally, I might say, in order to encourage you, that it will probably be given to you to serve your country in, a remarkable way; but as to the how and when, you must leave it to the future to show.”

“And you think that such a service will be at the end of my trouble?”

“I think so,” said he; “the laws of the mental world, in my judgment, require that your recovery should follow the period concerning which your factitious memory is brightest.”

“But how can a private soldier serve his country in a remarkable way?” I said, wondering.