Very gently, I turned her over, and raised her head somewhat.  Then, I poured a little of the brandy between her lips.  After a while, she shivered slightly.  A little later, she gave several gasps, and opened her eyes.  In a dreamy, unrealizing way, she looked at me.  Then her eyes closed, slowly, and I gave her a little more of the brandy.  For, perhaps a minute longer, she lay silent, breathing quickly.  All at once, her eyes opened again, and it seemed to me, as I looked, that the pupils were dilated, as though fear had come with returning consciousness.  Then, with a movement so unexpected that I started backward, she sat up.  Noticing that she seemed giddy, I put out my hand to steady her.  At that, she gave a loud scream, and, scrambling to her feet, ran from the room.

For a moment, I stayed there—­kneeling and holding the brandy flask.  I was utterly puzzled and astonished.

Could she be afraid of me?  But no!  Why should she?  I could only conclude that her nerves were badly shaken, and that she was temporarily unhinged.  Upstairs, I heard a door bang, loudly, and I knew that she had taken refuge in her room.  I put the flask down on the table.  My attention was distracted by a noise in the direction of the back door.  I went toward it, and listened.  It appeared to be shaken, as though some of the creatures struggled with it, silently; but it was far too strongly constructed and hung to be easily moved.

Out in the gardens rose a continuous sound.  It might have been mistaken, by a casual listener, for the grunting and squealing of a herd of pigs.  But, as I stood there, it came to me that there was sense and meaning to all those swinish noises.  Gradually, I seemed able to trace a semblance in it to human speech—­glutinous and sticky, as though each articulation were made with difficulty:  yet, nevertheless, I was becoming convinced that it was no mere medley of sounds; but a rapid interchange of ideas.

By this time, it had grown quite dark in the passages, and from these came all the varied cries and groans of which an old house is so full after nightfall.  It is, no doubt, because things are then quieter, and one has more leisure to hear.  Also, there may be something in the theory that the sudden change of temperature, at sundown, affects the structure of the house, somewhat—­causing it to contract and settle, as it were, for the night.  However, this is as may be; but, on that night in particular, I would gladly have been quit of so many eerie noises.  It seemed to me, that each crack and creak was the coming of one of those Things along the dark corridors; though I knew in my heart that this could not be, for I had seen, myself, that all the doors were secure.

Gradually, however, these sounds grew on my nerves to such an extent that, were it only to punish my cowardice, I felt I must make the ’round of the basement again, and, if anything were there, face it.  And then, I would go up to my study, for I knew sleep was out of the question, with the house surrounded by creatures, half beasts, half something else, and entirely unholy.