“It’s the willows, of course.  The willows mask the others, but the others are feeling about for us.  If we let our minds betray our fear, we’re lost, lost utterly.”  He looked at me with an expression so calm, so determined, so sincere, that I no longer had any doubts as to his sanity.  He was as sane as any man ever was.  “If we can hold out through the night,” he added, “we may get off in the daylight unnoticed, or rather, undiscovered.”

“But you really think a sacrifice would—­”

That gong-like humming came down very close over our heads as I spoke, but it was my friend’s scared face that really stopped my mouth.

“Hush!” he whispered, holding up his hand.  “Do not mention them more than you can help.  Do not refer to them by name.  To name is to reveal; it is the inevitable clue, and our only hope lies in ignoring them, in order that they may ignore us.”

“Even in thought?” He was extraordinarily agitated.

“Especially in thought.  Our thoughts make spirals in their world.  We must keep them out of our minds at all costs if possible.”

I raked the fire together to prevent the darkness having everything its own way.  I never longed for the sun as I longed for it then in the awful blackness of that summer night.

“Were you awake all last night?” he went on suddenly.

“I slept badly a little after dawn,” I replied evasively, trying to follow his instructions, which I knew instinctively were true, “but the wind, of course—­”

“I know.  But the wind won’t account for all the noises.”

“Then you heard it too?”

“The multiplying countless little footsteps I heard,” he said, adding, after a moment’s hesitation, “and that other sound—­”

“You mean above the tent, and the pressing down upon us of something tremendous, gigantic?”

He nodded significantly.

“It was like the beginning of a sort of inner suffocation?” I said.

“Partly, yes.  It seemed to me that the weight of the atmosphere had been altered—­had increased enormously, so that we should have been crushed.”

“And that,” I went on, determined to have it all out, pointing upwards where the gong-like note hummed ceaselessly, rising and falling like wind.  “What do you make of that?”

“It’s their sound,” he whispered gravely.  “It’s the sound of their world, the humming in their region.  The division here is so thin that it leaks through somehow.  But, if you listen carefully, you’ll find it’s not above so much as around us.  It’s in the willows.  It’s the willows themselves humming, because here the willows have been made symbols of the forces that are against us.”

I could not follow exactly what he meant by this, yet the thought and idea in my mind were beyond question the thought and idea in his.  I realized what he realized, only with less power of analysis than his.  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him at last about my hallucination of the ascending figures and the moving bushes, when he suddenly thrust his face again close into mine across the firelight and began to speak in a very earnest whisper.  He amazed me by his calmness and pluck, his apparent control of the situation.  This man I had for years deemed unimaginative, stolid!