I sprang up, striking out, blindly, wildly, right and left, hitting nothing,—­the buzzing always came from a point at which, at the moment, I was not aiming.

I tore off my clothes.  I had on a lovely frock which I had worn for the first time that night; I had had it specially made for the occasion of the Duchess’ ball, and—­more especially—­in honour of Paul’s great speech.  I had said to myself, when I saw my image in a mirror, that it was the most exquisite gown I had ever had, that it suited me to perfection, and that it should continue in my wardrobe for many a day, if only as a souvenir of a memorable night.  Now, in the madness of my terror, all reflections of that sort were forgotten.  My only desire was to away with it.  I tore it off anyhow, letting it fall in rags on the floor at my feet.  All else that I had on I flung in the same way after it; it was a veritable holocaust of dainty garments,—­I acting as relentless executioner who am, as a rule, so tender with my things.  I leaped upon the bed, switched off the electric light, hurried into bed, burying myself, over head and all, deep down between the sheets.

I had hoped that by shutting out the light, I might regain my senses.  That in the darkness I might have opportunity for sane reflection.  But I had made a grievous error.  I had exchanged bad for worse.  The darkness lent added terrors.  The light had not been out five seconds before I would have given all that I was worth to be able to switch it on again.

As I cowered beneath the bedclothes I heard the buzzing sound above my head,—­the sudden silence of the darkness had rendered it more audible than it had been before.  The thing, whatever it was, was hovering above the bed.  It came nearer and nearer; it grew clearer and clearer.  I felt it alight upon the coverlet;—­shall I ever forget the sensations with which I did feel it?  It weighed upon me like a ton of lead.  How much of the seeming weight was real, and how much imaginary, I cannot pretend to say; but that it was much heavier than any beetle I have ever seen or heard of, I am sure.

For a time it was still,—­and during that time I doubt if I even drew my breath.  Then I felt it begin to move, in wobbling fashion, with awkward, ungainly gait, stopping every now and then, as if for rest.  I was conscious that it was progressing, slowly, yet surely, towards the head of the bed.  The emotion of horror with which I realised what this progression might mean, will be, I fear, with me to the end of my life,—­not only in dreams, but too often, also, in my waking hours.  My heart, as the Psalmist has it, melted like wax within me, I was incapable of movement,—­dominated by something as hideous as, and infinitely more powerful than, the fascination of the serpent.

When it reached the head of the bed, what I feared—­with what a fear!—­would happen, did happen.  It began to find its way inside, —­to creep between the sheets; the wonder is I did not die!  I felt it coming nearer and nearer, inch by inch; I knew that it was upon me, that escape there was none; I felt something touch my hair.