"
"It comes off the whole swamp," my friend answered. "It comes from
everywhere at once." He ignored my explanations. "It comes from the willow
bushes somehow--"
"But now the wind has dropped," I objected. "The willows can hardly make a
noise by themselves, can they?"
His answer frightened me, first because I had dreaded it, and secondly,
because I knew intuitively it was true.
"It is because the wind has dropped we now hear it. It was drowned before.
It is the cry, I believe, of the--"
I dashed back to my fire, warned by the sound of bubbling that the stew was
in danger, but determined at the same time to escape further conversation.
I was resolute, if possible, to avoid the exchanging of views. I dreaded,
too, that he would begin about the gods, or the elemental forces, or
something else disquieting, and I wanted to keep myself well in hand for
what might happen later. There was another night to be faced before we
escaped from this distressing place, and there was no knowing yet what it
might bring forth.
"Come and cut up bread for the pot," I called to him, vigorously stirring
the appetizing mixture. That stew-pot held sanity for us both, and the
thought made me laugh.
He came over slowly and took the provision sack from the tree, fumbling in
its mysterious depths, and then emptying the entire contents upon the
ground-sheet at his feet.
"Hurry up!" I cried; "it's boiling."
The Swede burst out into a roar of laughter that startled me.
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