Creeping with silent feet over the shifting sands, drawing imperceptibly nearer by soft, unhurried movements, the willows had come closer during the night.  But had the wind moved them, or had they moved of themselves?  I recalled the sound of infinite small patterings and the pressure upon the tent and upon my own heart that caused me to wake in terror.  I swayed for a moment in the wind like a tree, finding it hard to keep my upright position on the sandy hillock.  There was a suggestion here of personal agency, of deliberate intention, of aggressive hostility, and it terrified me into a sort of rigidity.

Then the reaction followed quickly.  The idea was so bizarre, so absurd, that I felt inclined to laugh.  But the laughter came no more readily than the cry, for the knowledge that my mind was so receptive to such dangerous imaginings brought the additional terror that it was through our minds and not through our physical bodies that the attack would come, and was coming.

The wind buffeted me about, and, very quickly it seemed, the sun came up over the horizon, for it was after four o’clock, and I must have stood on that little pinnacle of sand longer than I knew, afraid to come down to close quarters with the willows.  I returned quietly, creepily, to the tent, first taking another exhaustive look round and—­yes, I confess it—­making a few measurements.  I paced out on the warm sand the distances between the willows and the tent, making a note of the shortest distance particularly.

I crawled stealthily into my blankets.  My companion, to all appearances, still slept soundly, and I was glad that this was so.  Provided my experiences were not corroborated, I could find strength somehow to deny them, perhaps.  With the daylight I could persuade myself that it was all a subjective hallucination, a fantasy of the night, a projection of the excited imagination.

Nothing further came in to disturb me, and I fell asleep almost at once, utterly exhausted, yet still in dread of hearing again that weird sound of multitudinous pattering, or of feeling the pressure upon my heart that had made it difficult to breathe.

The sun was high in the heavens when my companion woke me from a heavy sleep and announced that the porridge was cooked and there was just time to bathe.  The grateful smell of frizzling bacon entered the tent door.

“River still rising,” he said, “and several islands out in mid-stream have disappeared altogether.  Our own island’s much smaller.”

“Any wood left?” I asked sleepily.

“The wood and the island will finish tomorrow in a dead heat,” he laughed, “but there’s enough to last us till then.”

I plunged in from the point of the island, which had indeed altered a lot in size and shape during the night, and was swept down in a moment to the landing-place opposite the tent.  The water was icy, and the banks flew by like the country from an express train.  Bathing under such conditions was an exhilarating operation, and the terror of the night seemed cleansed out of me by a process of evaporation in the brain.  The sun was blazing hot; not a cloud showed itself anywhere; the wind, however, had not abated one little jot.