“Smith is notoriously hot-tempered, but the sight of some nondescript and miry creature sitting cross-legged amongst a lot of loose straw, and swinging itself to and fro like a bear in a cage, made him pause.  Then this tramp stood up silently before him, one mass of mud and filth from head to foot.  Smith, alone amongst his stacks with this apparition, in the stormy twilight ringing with the infuriated barking of the dog, felt the dread of an inexplicable strangeness.  But when that being, parting with his black hands the long matted locks that hung before his face, as you part the two halves of a curtain, looked out at him with glistening, wild, black-and-white eyes, the weirdness of this silent encounter fairly staggered him.  He had admitted since (for the story has been a legitimate subject of conversation about here for years) that he made more than one step backwards.  Then a sudden burst of rapid, senseless speech persuaded him at once that he had to do with an escaped lunatic.  In fact, that impression never wore off completely.  Smith has not in his heart given up his secret conviction of the man’s essential insanity to this very day.

“As the creature approached him, jabbering in a most discomposing manner, Smith (unaware that he was being addressed as ‘gracious lord,’ and adjured in God’s name to afford food and shelter) kept on speaking firmly but gently to it, and retreating all the time into the other yard.  At last, watching his chance, by a sudden charge he bundled him headlong into the wood-lodge, and instantly shot the bolt.  Thereupon he wiped his brow, though the day was cold.  He had done his duty to the community by shutting up a wandering and probably dangerous maniac.  Smith isn’t a hard man at all, but he had room in his brain only for that one idea of lunacy.  He was not imaginative enough to ask himself whether the man might not be perishing with cold and hunger.  Meantime, at first, the maniac made a great deal of noise in the lodge.  Mrs. Smith was screaming upstairs, where she had locked herself in her bedroom; but Amy Foster sobbed piteously at the kitchen door, wringing her hands and muttering, ‘Don’t! don’t!’ I daresay Smith had a rough time of it that evening with one noise and another, and this insane, disturbing voice crying obstinately through the door only added to his irritation.  He couldn’t possibly have connected this troublesome lunatic with the sinking of a ship in Eastbay, of which there had been a rumour in the Darnford marketplace.  And I daresay the man inside had been very near to insanity on that night.  Before his excitement collapsed and he became unconscious he was throwing himself violently about in the dark, rolling on some dirty sacks, and biting his fists with rage, cold, hunger, amazement, and despair.

“He was a mountaineer of the eastern range of the Carpathians, and the vessel sunk the night before in Eastbay was the Hamburg emigrant-ship Herzogin Sophia-Dorothea, of appalling memory.