“On that day I realized what fear was, but since then I have had another, and still more vivid experience—­”

The commandant interrupted the speaker: 

“I beg your pardon, but what was the drum?”

The traveler replied: 

“I cannot say.  No one knows.  Our officers are often surprised by this singular noise and attribute it generally to the echo produced by a hail of grains of sand blown by the wind against the dry and brittle leaves of weeds, for it has always been noticed that the phenomenon occurs in proximity to little plants burned by the sun and hard as parchment.  This sound seems to have been magnified, multiplied, and swelled beyond measure in its progress through the valleys of sand, and the drum therefore might be considered a sort of sound mirage.  Nothing more.  But I did not know that until later.

“I shall proceed to my second instance.

“It was last winter, in a forest of the Northeast of France.  The sky was so overcast that night came two hours earlier than usual.  My guide was a peasant who walked beside me along the narrow road, under the vault of fir trees, through which the wind in its fury howled.  Between the tree tops, I saw the fleeting clouds, which seemed to hasten as if to escape some object of terror.  Sometimes in a fierce gust of wind the whole forest bowed in the same direction with a groan of pain, and a chill laid hold of me, despite my rapid pace and heavy clothing.

“We were to sup and sleep at an old gamekeeper’s house not much farther on.  I had come out for hunting.

“My guide sometimes raised his eyes and murmured:  ‘Ugly weather!’ Then he told me about the people among whom we were to spend the night.  The father had killed a poacher, two years before, and since then had been gloomy and behaved as though haunted by a memory.  His two sons were married and lived with him.

“The darkness was profound.  I could see nothing before me nor around me and the mass of overhanging interlacing trees rubbed together, filling the night with an incessant whispering.  Finally I saw a light and soon my companion was knocking upon a door.  Sharp women’s voices answered us, then a man’s voice, a choking voice, asked, ‘Who goes there?’ My guide gave his name.  We entered and beheld a memorable picture.

“An old man with white hair, wild eyes, and a loaded gun in his hands, stood waiting for us in the middle of the kitchen, while two stalwart youths, armed with axes, guarded the door.  In the somber corners I distinguished two women kneeling with faces to the wall.

“Matters were explained, and the old man stood his gun against the wall, at the same time ordering that a room be prepared for me.  Then, as the women did not stir:  ‘Look you, monsieur,’ said he, ’two years ago this night I killed a man, and last year he came back to haunt me.  I expect him again to-night.’

“Then he added in a tone that made me smile: