ied to speak; the
boy's eyes were wide open, unwinking, luminous. Pierre began to talk of
food, and Francis struck out at him, and walked on. Pierre followed.
They continued still in the same dull circle, all night long, Francis
walking like a cat undeterred by branches and avoiding pitfalls with
the cleverness of the insane, and the guide, wearied and stumbling.
Just as the latter darkness of night came on, Francis paused, wavered a
little, and Pierre caught him as he fell. He drew him upon his
shoulder, and toiled back to camp with him. There he laid him upon a
couch in the cabin, and poured brandy between his lips. All that day
the boy slept, only stirring when Pierre roused him to administer milk
or brandy; but at twilight time he moved and opened his eyes. Pierre
knew he had "come back." Then the old man placed bread and meat beside
him and went silently out. He had much experience, I judged, of the
dignity of the soul; much knowledge, gained from lonely living, of her
needs. He knew when she must be alone. Yet he watched all night in the
grove, his quick ears strained for a movement of the creature within.
What came next, Francis Hume only can tell.

* * * * *

It is two o'clock in the morning, and I am writing here in the cabin
door-way. I have no light, yet I can see what I am writing. That, I
remember, is not what ordinarily happens; but it seems quite natural. I
must write in haste, for, as I judge, I have been crazy, and now I am
sane; and I must put down something to remember, lest madness should
come on again. I must have something to hold to, if I am to fall back
into the great confusion and trouble of mind that have been sweeping me
down like a sea. For I have learned something. It is most precious, and
I must be sure to keep it. There is no doubt that I have killed my
father. I was not by to tend him. When his soul was going forth, I let
it go alone. I brought upon him the sharpest pangs of his mortality.
But even that is well. Can I write what has befallen me, to recall it
to my later mind when the vision has faded, as it may? I cling to it. I
must try. First, I went down into hell. I do not know much about that.
It is confused. And hell is not very important. We dig it for
ourselves. Let me remember only the things of God. Then I awoke, and
Pierre was feeding me. He went out, and I saw the twilight shaft of
light strike across the cabin where it used to fall. But I kn