to a dry spot and found some dry leaves and
branches with which I started a fire. Jerome was beyond recognising
me. He lay by the fire, drawing long, wheezing breaths, and his face
was horribly distorted, like that of a man in a violent fit. He
babbled incessantly to himself and occasionally stared at me and
broke out into shrill, dreadful laughter, that made my flesh creep.

All this overwhelmed me and sapped the little energy I had left. I
threw myself on the ground some little distance from the fire, not
caring if I ever rose again.

How long it was before a penetrating, weird cry aroused me from this
stupor, I do not know, but when I raised my head I saw that the forest
was growing dark and the fire burning low. I saw too that Jerome was
trying to get on his feet, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his
face crimson in colour. He was on one knee, when the thread of life
snapped, and he fell headlong into the fire. I saw this as through
a hazy veil and almost instantly my senses left me again.

I have no clear knowledge of what happened after this. Throughout the
rest of the night, my madness mercifully left me insensible to the
full appreciation of the situation and my future prospects. It was
night again before I was able to arouse myself from my collapse. The
fire was out, the forest dark and still, except for the weird cry of
the owl, the uncanny "Mother of the Moon." Poor Jerome lay quiet among
the embers. I did not have the courage, even if I had had the strength,
to pull the body away, for there could be nothing left of his face
by now. I looked at him once more, shuddering, and because I could
not walk, I crept on all fours through the brush, without any object
in mind,--just kept moving--just crept on like a sick, worthless dog.

One definite incident of the night I remember quite distinctly. It
occurred during one of those moments when my senses returned for a
while; when I could realise where I was and how I got there. I was
crawling through the thicket making small, miserable progress, my
insensible face and hands torn and scratched by spines and thorns
which I did not heed, when something bumped against my thigh; I
clutched at it and my hand closed around the butt of my automatic
pistol. The weapon came out of its holster unconsciously, but as I felt
my finger rest in the curve of the trigger, I knew that some numbed
and exhausted corner of my brain had prompted me to do this thing;
indeed, as I we