“Now listen,” he said.  “The only thing for us to do is to go on as though nothing had happened, follow our usual habits, go to bed, and so forth; pretend we feel nothing and notice nothing.  It is a question wholly of the mind, and the less we think about them the better our chance of escape.  Above all, don’t think, for what you think happens!”

“All right,” I managed to reply, simply breathless with his words and the strangeness of it all; “all right, I’ll try, but tell me one more thing first.  Tell me what you make of those hollows in the ground all about us, those sand-funnels?”

“No!” he cried, forgetting to whisper in his excitement.  “I dare not, simply dare not, put the thought into words.  If you have not guessed I am glad.  Don’t try to.  They have put it into my mind; try your hardest to prevent their putting it into yours.”

He sank his voice again to a whisper before he finished, and I did not press him to explain.  There was already just about as much horror in me as I could hold.  The conversation came to an end, and we smoked our pipes busily in silence.

Then something happened, something unimportant apparently, as the way is when the nerves are in a very great state of tension, and this small thing for a brief space gave me an entirely different point of view.  I chanced to look down at my sand-shoe—­the sort we used for the canoe—­and something to do with the hole at the toe suddenly recalled to me the London shop where I had bought them, the difficulty the man had in fitting me, and other details of the uninteresting but practical operation.  At once, in its train, followed a wholesome view of the modern skeptical world I was accustomed to move in at home.  I thought of roast beef, and ale, motor-cars, policemen, brass bands, and a dozen other things that proclaimed the soul of ordinariness or utility.  The effect was immediate and astonishing even to myself.  Psychologically, I suppose, it was simply a sudden and violent reaction after the strain of living in an atmosphere of things that to the normal consciousness must seem impossible and incredible.  But, whatever the cause, it momentarily lifted the spell from my heart, and left me for the short space of a minute feeling free and utterly unafraid.  I looked up at my friend opposite.

“You damned old pagan!” I cried, laughing aloud in his face.  “You imaginative idiot!  You superstitious idolater!  You—­”

I stopped in the middle, seized anew by the old horror.  I tried to smother the sound of my voice as something sacrilegious.  The Swede, of course, heard it too—­the strange cry overhead in the darkness—­and that sudden drop in the air as though something had come nearer.

He had turned ashen white under the tan.  He stood bolt upright in front of the fire, stiff as a rod, staring at me.

“After that,” he said in a sort of helpless, frantic way, “we must go!  We can’t stay now; we must strike camp this very instant and go on—­down the river.”