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hands in a frantic attempt to get his bearings.  He took a step, lost his balance and fell, crashing heavily to the floor.  There he lay, fighting the panic, the emotions that were rushing down on him.
    "Shhhh.  It's all right."  She was there, crouching down beside him, her irritating little hand on his arm, his back, stroking him as though he was a baby.  Soft fingers brushed the hair off his forehead, rubbed the back of his neck in a gentle, soothing motion.  "Just be still.  You're not alone.  I'm here."
    He was sharply aware of the floorboards, hard beneath his cheek and smelling faintly of dust and pine.  He was embarrassingly aware of the fact he wore only a long, nearly knee-length shirt.  And he was very aware of her hand, soothing him, stroking him.  Normally he would have resented such womanly coddling — even from Juliet — but in his shock and grief he was powerless to do anything but lie there and allow it.
    The girl Amy tried to put a hand on his shoulder in comfort.
    "Leave me!" he said hoarsely, embarrassed by his shameful display and angrily twitching his shoulder to throw her off.  He buried his face in his hands.  "Oh, please, just go away and leave me to die."
    The girl said nothing, which made him all the more angry, all the more afraid, all the more frustrated by his sudden helplessness.  He hated himself for it.  Hated himself for this shocking loss of control.  But most of all, he hated himself for what had happened to him because it was, after all, his own damned fault.
    Cruel, cruel memory!  He remembered the boy jumping out and shooting at him.  He remembered jerking his musket up at the last moment so that he wouldn't kill the lad, and then losing his balance, falling backwards and hitting something so hard that a million lights had exploded in his head.  What a clumsy fool he was.  What an inept excuse for a soldier.  He'd always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.  Well, he'd gone out, all right.
    In a blaze of humiliation.
    Sitting up, he gazed miserably into the darkness, trying to get used to it and knowing he never could.  Imagine, an entire life with nothing before you but this.  No light, ever again.  No colors, ever again.  No faces of those you love, no knowledge of what your baby will look like, no career, no future, no independence, nothing.
    He took a deep, shaky, bracing breath.
    Ever again.
    Outside, the sparrows were still chattering; for them, for the girl beside him, for just about everything on God's earth, life went on as usual.  How could everything be so complete and utterly normal, when for him, things would never be the same?
    He heard liquid pouring into a vessel of some sort, and then the girl's voice, subdued, sympathetic.
    "Here, drink this.  It'll make you feel better."
    He shut his eyes, unable to speak.
    "Please, Captain.  I know you've had a shock, but you should be grateful that you're alive."
    "Grateful?  Grateful?   Did it ever occur to you that I'd prefer to be dead?"
    "I'm sorry.  I . . . I cannot imagine what you must feel, right now."
    "Indeed, you cannot.  I am a captain in the King's Own.  I had a fine career, people who depended on me, and the sweetest girl in Boston just accepted my hand in marriage.  Now I doubt whether I can so much as feed myself without mishap — let alone lead my troops into battle or suffice as anything resembling a husband or a father.  No, madam, you cannot imagine what I feel right now.  You cannot imagine it at all."
    "But these are early days."
    "Right.  Early days.  I suppose the doctor thinks I will recover my sight tomorrow, eh?"
    "The doctor thought you'd never wake up.  The fact that you have is a miracle in itself."
    "You will understand if I don't quite consider it a miracle ."
    He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, and rested his head thus, his fingers splaying up through hair that felt thick and disgustingly greasy.  His fingertips encountered a bald spot, and,