As, then, it was my conjecture that all that was presented, or would be presented to my senses, must originate in some human being gifted by constitution with the power so to present them, and having some motive so to do, I felt an interest in my theory which, in its way, was rather philosophical than superstitious.  And I can sincerely say that I was in as tranquil a temper for observation as any practical experimentalist could be in awaiting the effect of some rare, though perhaps perilous, chemical combination.  Of course, the more I kept my mind detached from fancy, the more the temper fitted for observation would be obtained; and I therefore riveted eye and thought on the strong daylight sense in the page of my Macaulay.

I now became aware that something interposed between the page and the light—­the page was over-shadowed:  I looked up, and I saw what I shall find it very difficult, perhaps impossible, to describe.

It was a Darkness shaping itself forth from the air in very undefined outline.  I cannot say it was of a human form, and yet it had more resemblance to a human form, or rather shadow, than to anything else.  As it stood, wholly apart and distinct from the air and the light around it, its dimensions seemed gigantic, the summit nearly touching the ceiling.  While I gazed, a feeling of intense cold seized me.  An iceberg before me could not more have chilled me; nor could the cold of an iceberg have been more purely physical.  I feel convinced that it was not the cold caused by fear.  As I continued to gaze, I thought—­but this I cannot say with precision—­that I distinguished two eyes looking down on me from the height.  One moment I fancied that I distinguished them clearly, the next they seemed gone; but still two rays of a pale-blue light frequently shot through the darkness, as from the height on which I half believed, half doubted, that I had encountered the eyes.

I strove to speak—­my voice utterly failed me; I could only think to myself, “is this fear? it is not fear!” I strove to rise—­in vain; I felt as if weighed down by an irresistible force.  Indeed, my impression was that of an immense and overwhelming Power opposed to any volition;—­that sense of utter inadequacy to cope with a force beyond man’s, which one may feel physically in a storm at sea, in a conflagration, or when confronting some terrible wild beast, or rather, perhaps, the shark of the ocean, I felt morally.  Opposed to my will was another will, as far superior to its strength as storm, fire, and shark are superior in material force to the force of man.

And now, as this impression grew on me—­now came, at last, horror—­horror to a degree that no words can convey.  Still I retained pride, if not courage; and in my own mind I said, “This is horror, but it is not fear; unless I fear I cannot be harmed; my reason rejects this thing, it is an illusion—­I do not fear.”  With a violent effort I succeeded at last in stretching