It was repeated
at regular intervals, but it was certainly neither the sound of a bell
nor the hooting of a distant steamer. I can liken it to nothing so much
as to the sound of an immense gong, suspended far up in the sky,
repeating incessantly its muffled metallic note, soft and musical, as
it was repeatedly struck. My heart quickened as I listened. “I’ve heard it all day,” said my companion. “While you slept this
afternoon it came all round the island. I hunted it down, but could
never get near enough to see—to localize it correctly. Sometimes it was
overhead, and sometimes it seemed under the water. Once or twice, too,
I could have sworn it was not outside at all, but _within myself_—you
know—the way a sound in the fourth dimension is supposed to come.”

I was too much puzzled to pay much attention to his words. I listened
carefully, striving to associate it with any known familiar sound I
could think of, but without success. It changed in the direction, too,
coming nearer, and then sinking utterly away into remote distance. I
cannot say that it was ominous in quality, because to me it seemed
distinctly musical, yet I must admit it set going a distressing feeling
that made me wish I had never heard it. “The wind blowing in those sand-funnels,” I said determined to find an
explanation, “or the bushes rubbing together after the storm perhaps.”

“It comes off the whole swamp,” my friend answered. “It comes from
everywhere at once.” He ignored my explanations. “It comes from the
willow bushes somehow—”

“But now the wind has dropped,” I objected. “The willows can hardly
make a noise by themselves, can they?”

His answer frightened me, first because I had dreaded it, and secondly,
because I knew intuitively it was true. “It is _because_ the wind has dropped we now hear it. It was drowned
before. It is the cry, I believe, of the—”

I dashed back to my fire, warned by the sound of bubbling that the stew
was in danger, but determined at the same time to escape further
conversation. I was resolute, if possible, to avoid the exchanging of
views. I dreaded, too, that he would begin about the gods, or the
elemental forces, or something else disquieting, and I wanted to keep
myself well in hand for what might happen later. There was another
night to be faced before we escaped from this distressing place, and
there was no knowing yet what it might bring forth. “Come and cut up bread for the pot,” I called to him, vigorously
stirring the appetizing mixture. That stew-pot held sanity for us both,
and the thought made me laugh. He came over slowly and took the provision sack from the tree, fumbling
in its mysterious depths, and then emptying the entire contents upon
the ground-sheet at his feet. “Hurry up!” I cried; “it’s boiling.”

The Swede burst out into a roar of laughter that startled me. It was
forced laughter, not artificial exactly, but mirthless. “There’s nothing here!” he shouted, holding his sides. “Bread, I mean.”

“It’s gone. There is no bread. They’ve taken it!”

I dropped the long spoon and ran up. Everything the sack had contained
lay upon the ground-sheet, but there was no loaf. The whole dead weight of my growing fear fell upon me and shook me. Then I burst out laughing too. It was the only thing to do: and the
sound of my laughter also made me understand his. The stain of
psychical pressure caused it—this explosion of unnatural laughter in
both of us; it was an effort of repressed forces to seek relief; it was
a temporary safety-valve. And with both of us it ceased quite suddenly. “How criminally stupid of me!” I cried, still determined to be
consistent and find an explanation. “I clean forgot to buy a loaf at
Pressburg. That chattering woman put everything out of my head, and I
must have left it lying on the counter or—”

“The oatmeal, too, is much less than it was this morning,” the Swede
interrupted. Why in the world need he draw attention to it? I thought angrily. “There’s enough for tomorrow,” I said, stirring vigorously, “and we can
get lots more at Komorn or Gran. In twenty-four hours we shall be miles
from here.”

“I hope so—to God,” he muttered, putting the things back into the sack,
“unless we’re claimed first as victims for the sacrifice,” he added
with a foolish laugh. He dragged the sack into the tent, for safety’s
sake, I suppose, and I heard him mumbling to himself, but so
indistinctly that it seemed quite natural for me to ignore his words. Our meal was beyond question a gloomy one, and we ate it almost in
silence, avoiding one another’s eyes, and keeping the fire bright. Then
we washed up and prepared for the night, and, once smoking, our minds
unoccupied with any definite duties, the apprehension I had felt all
day long became more and more acute. It was not then active fear, I
think, but the very vagueness of its origin distressed me far more that
if I had been able to ticket and face it squarely. The curious sound I
have likened to the note of a gong became now almost incessant, and
filled the stillness of the night with a faint, continuous ringing
rather than a series of distinct notes. At one time it was behind and
at another time in front of us. Sometimes I fancied it came from the
bushes on our left, and then again from the clumps on our right. More
often it hovered directly overhead like the whirring of wings. It was
really everywhere at once, behind, in front, at our sides and over our
heads, completely surrounding us. The sound really defies description. But nothing within my knowledge is like that ceaseless muffled humming
rising off the deserted world of swamps and willows. We sat smoking in comparative silence, the strain growing every minute
greater. The worst feature of the situation seemed to me that we did
not know what to expect, and could therefore make no sort of
preparation by way of defense. We could anticipate nothing. My
explanations made in the sunshine, moreover, now came to haunt me with
their foolish and wholly unsatisfactory nature, and it was more and
more clear to us that some kind of plain talk with my companion was
inevitable, whether I liked it or not. After all, we had to spend the
night together, and to sleep in the same tent side by side. I saw that
I could not get along much longer without the support of his mind, and
for that, of course, plain talk was imperative. As long as possible,
however, I postponed this little climax, and tried to ignore or laugh
at the occasional sentences he flung into the emptiness. Some of these sentences, moreover, were confoundedly disquieting to me,
coming as they did to corroborate much that I felt myself;
corroboration, too—which made it so much more convincing—from a totally
different point of view. He composed such curious sentences, and hurled
them at me in such an inconsequential sort of way, as though his main
line of thought was secret to himself, and these fragments were mere
bits he found it impossible to digest. He got rid of them by uttering
them.