’So we went on in the quiet, and the twilight deepened into night.  The clear blue of the distance faded, and one star after another came out.  The ground grew dim and the trees black.  Weena’s fears and her fatigue grew upon her.  I took her in my arms and talked to her and caressed her.  Then, as the darkness grew deeper, she put her arms round my neck, and, closing her eyes, tightly pressed her face against my shoulder.  So we went down a long slope into a valley, and there in the dimness I almost walked into a little river.  This I waded, and went up the opposite side of the valley, past a number of sleeping houses, and by a statue—­a Faun, or some such figure, minus the head.  Here too were acacias.  So far I had seen nothing of the Morlocks, but it was yet early in the night, and the darker hours before the old moon rose were still to come.

’From the brow of the next hill I saw a thick wood spreading wide and black before me.  I hesitated at this.  I could see no end to it, either to the right or the left.  Feeling tired—­my feet, in particular, were very sore—­I carefully lowered Weena from my shoulder as I halted, and sat down upon the turf.  I could no longer see the Palace of Green Porcelain, and I was in doubt of my direction.  I looked into the thickness of the wood and thought of what it might hide.  Under that dense tangle of branches one would be out of sight of the stars.  Even were there no other lurking danger—­a danger I did not care to let my imagination loose upon—­there would still be all the roots to stumble over and the tree-boles to strike against.

’I was very tired, too, after the excitements of the day; so I decided that I would not face it, but would pass the night upon the open hill.

’Weena, I was glad to find, was fast asleep.  I carefully wrapped her in my jacket, and sat down beside her to wait for the moonrise.  The hill-side was quiet and deserted, but from the black of the wood there came now and then a stir of living things.  Above me shone the stars, for the night was very clear.  I felt a certain sense of friendly comfort in their twinkling.  All the old constellations had gone from the sky, however:  that slow movement which is imperceptible in a hundred human lifetimes, had long since rearranged them in unfamiliar groupings.  But the Milky Way, it seemed to me, was still the same tattered streamer of star-dust as of yore.  Southward (as I judged it) was a very bright red star that was new to me; it was even more splendid than our own green Sirius.  And amid all these scintillating points of light one bright planet shone kindly and steadily like the face of an old friend.