“But who are aware?” I asked.

I forgot the shaking of the willows in the windless calm, the humming overhead, everything except that I was waiting for an answer that I dreaded more than I can possibly explain.

He lowered his voice at once to reply, leaning forward a little over the fire, an indefinable change in his face that made me avoid his eyes and look down upon the ground.

“All my life,” he said, “I have been strangely, vividly conscious of another region—­not far removed from our own world in one sense, yet wholly different in kind—­where great things go on unceasingly, where immense and terrible personalities hurry by, intent on vast purposes compared to which earthly affairs, the rise and fall of nations, the destinies of empires, the fate of armies and continents, are all as dust in the balance; vast purposes, I mean, that deal directly with the soul, and not indirectly with mere expressions of the soul—­”

“I suggest just now—­” I began, seeking to stop him, feeling as though I was face to face with a madman.  But he instantly overbore me with his torrent that had to come.

“You think,” he said, “it is the spirits of the elements, and I thought perhaps it was the old gods.  But I tell you now it is—­neither.  These would be comprehensible entities, for they have relations with men, depending upon them for worship or sacrifice, whereas these beings who are now about us have absolutely nothing to do with mankind, and it is mere chance that their space happens just at this spot to touch our own.”

The mere conception, which his words somehow made so convincing, as I listened to them there in the dark stillness of that lonely island, set me shaking a little all over.  I found it impossible to control my movements.

“And what do you propose?” I began again.

“A sacrifice, a victim, might save us by distracting them until we could get away,” he went on, “just as the wolves stop to devour the dogs and give the sleigh another start.  But—­I see no chance of any other victim now.”

I stared blankly at him.  The gleam in his eyes was dreadful.  Presently he continued.

“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.”