and her words running into one
another anyhow.

"Quick, Harry! It's Rushton. I was asleep and it woke me. Something's
happened. You must deal with it!"

In a second we were outside the tent with our rifles.

"My God!" I heard the professor exclaim, as if he had first made the
discovery. "It _is_ Rushton!"

I saw the guides helping--dragging--a man out of a canoe. A brief space
of deep silence followed in which I heard only the waves from the canoe
washing up on the sand; and then, immediately after, came the voice of
a man talking with amazing rapidity and with odd gaps between his words.
It was Rushton telling his story, and the tones of his voice, now
whispering, now almost shouting, mixed with sobs and solemn oaths and
frequent appeals to the Deity, somehow or other struck the false note at
the very start, and before any of us guessed or knew anything at all.
Something moved secretly between his words, a shadow veiling the stars,
destroying the peace of our little camp, and touching us all personally
with an undefinable sense of horror and distrust.

I can see that group to this day, with all the detail of a good
photograph: standing half-way between the firelight and the darkness, a
slight mist rising from the lake, the frosty stars, and our men, in
silence that was all sympathy, dragging Rushton across the rocks towards
the camp fire. Their moccasins crunched on the sand and slipped several
times on the stones beneath the weight of the limp, exhausted body, and
I can still see every inch of the pared cedar branch he had used for a
paddle on that lonely and dreadful journey.

But what struck me most, as it struck us all, was the limp exhaustion of
his body compared to the strength of his utterance and the tearing rush
of his words. A vigorous driving-power was there at work, forcing out
the tale, red-hot and throbbing, full of discrepancies and the strangest
contradictions; and the nature of this driving-power I first began to
appreciate when they had lifted him into the circle of firelight and I
saw his face, grey under the tan, terror in the eyes, tears too, hair
and beard awry, and listened to the wild stream of words pouring forth
without ceasing.

I think we all understood then, but it was only after many years that
anyone dared to confess what he thought.

There was Matt Morris, my guide; Silver Fizz, whose real name was
unknown, and who bore the title of his favourite drink; and huge Hank
Milligan-