Open space was about him, and he was lying on a pile of bricks and
mortar, his clothes soaked with dew, and the kind stars shining brightly
overhead. He was lying, bruised and shaken, among the heaped-up débris
of a ruined building.

He stood up and stared about him. There, in the shadowy distance, lay
the surrounding forest, and here, close at hand, stood the outline of
the village buildings. But, underfoot, beyond question, lay nothing but
the broken heaps of stones that betokened a building long since crumbled
to dust. Then he saw that the stones were blackened, and that great
wooden beams, half burnt, half rotten, made lines through the general
débris. He stood, then, among the ruins of a burnt and shattered
building, the weeds and nettles proving conclusively that it had lain
thus for many years.

The moon had already set behind the encircling forest, but the stars
that spangled the heavens threw enough light to enable him to make quite
sure of what he saw. Harris, the silk merchant, stood among these broken
and burnt stones and shivered.

Then he suddenly became aware that out of the gloom a figure had risen
and stood beside him. Peering at him, he thought he recognised the face
of the stranger at the railway inn.

"Are _you_ real?" he asked in a voice he hardly recognised as his own.

"More than real--I'm friendly," replied the stranger; "I followed you up
here from the inn."