“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 idolator!  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—­that 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.”

He was talking, I saw, quite wildly, his words dictated by abject terror—­the terror he had resisted so long, but which had caught him at last.

“In the dark?” I exclaimed, shaking with fear after my hysterical outburst, but still realizing our position better than he did.  “Sheer madness!  The river’s in flood, and we’ve only got a single paddle.  Besides, we only go deeper into their country!  There’s nothing ahead for fifty miles but willows, willows, willows!”

He sat down again in a state of semi-collapse.  The positions, by one of those kaleidoscopic changes nature loves, were suddenly reversed, and the control of our forces passed over into my hands.  His mind at last had reached the point where it was beginning to weaken.