The invisible crew passed me, and
their voices faded. I heard them melt, melt into nothing. A sound, an
impression,--that had been all. Not even a gray shadow on the fog to
show that I had not been dreaming. I looked at my skinned knuckles and
disordered clothes, and a strange feeling shook me. A certain rashness
of temperament had all my life made me contemptuous of fear. But this
was different. I tried to laugh at myself, but could not.
It was a simple matter to retrace my route, for I had left a trail like
a behemoth's. And one thought I chewed all the way back to the meadow.
If I could have done it over again I should have called, and so have
drawn whatever thing it was toward me. That would have been dangerous,
and I might have paid the forfeit of a head that was not my own to part
with, but at least I should have seen what thing it was that passed me
in the fog. There began to be something that was not wholly sound and
sane in the depth of my feeling that I ought, at whatever cost, to have
confronted that noise and forced it to declare itself.
When I came to the meadow it was wet and spectral. The fog had lifted
somewhat and now the air was curiously luminous. It appeared
transparent, as if the vision could pierce far-stretching reaches, but
when I tried to peer ahead I found my glance baffled a few feet away.
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