Paynter looked; he saw the wine-dark sea and the fantastic trees that fringed it, but he did not see the poet; the cloister was already empty of its restless monk.

“Gone somewhere else,” he said, with futility far from characteristic.  “He’ll be back here presently.  This is an interesting vigil, but a vigil loses some of its intensity when you can’t keep awake.  Ah!  Here’s Treherne; so we’re all mustered, as the politician said when Mr. Colman came late for dinner.  No, the doctor’s off again.  How restless we all are!” The poet had drawn near, his feet were falling soft on the grass, and was gazing at them with a singular attentiveness.

“It will soon be over,” he said.

“What?” snapped Ashe very abruptly.

“The night, of course,” replied Treherne in a motionless manner.  “The darkest hour has passed.”

“Didn’t some other minor poet remark,” inquired Paynter flippantly, “that the darkest hour before the dawn—?  My God, what was that?  It was like a scream.”

“It was a scream,” replied the poet.  “The scream of a peacock.”

Ashe stood up, his strong pale face against his red hair, and said furiously:  “What the devil do you mean?”

“Oh, perfectly natural causes, as Dr. Brown would say,” replied Treherne.  “Didn’t the Squire tell us the trees had a shrill note of their own when the wind blew?  The wind’s beating up again from the sea; I shouldn’t wonder if there was a storm before dawn.”

Dawn indeed came gradually with a growing noise of wind, and the purple sea began to boil about the dark volcanic cliffs.  The first change in the sky showed itself only in the shapes of the wood and the single stems growing darker but clearer; and above the gray clump, against a glimpse of growing light, they saw aloft the evil trinity of the trees.  In their long lines there seemed to Paynter something faintly serpentine and even spiral.  He could almost fancy he saw them slowly revolving as in some cyclic dance, but this, again, was but a last delusion of dreamland, for a few seconds later he was again asleep.  In dreams he toiled through a tangle of inconclusive tales, each filled with the same stress and noise of sea and sea wind; and above and outside all other voices the wailing of the Trees of Pride.

When he woke it was broad day, and a bloom of early light lay on wood and garden and on fields and farms for miles away.  The comparative common sense that daylight brings even to the sleepless drew him alertly to his feet, and showed him all his companions standing about the lawn in similar attitudes of expectancy.  There was no need to ask what they were expecting.  They were waiting to hear the nocturnal experiences, comic or commonplace or whatever they might prove to be, of that eccentric friend, whose experiment (whether from some subconscious fear or some fancy of honor) they had not ventured to interrupt.  Hour followed hour, and still nothing stirred in