"Why am I here in the woods near the Cedars?"

And he thought the thing answered:

"Because you hate your grandfather."

Bobby laughed, thinking he understood. The figure in the black mask
that accompanied him was his conscience. He could understand why it
went masked.

The wind resumed its whispering. The figures, straining like puny men,
fought harder. The drowning face disappeared, wet and helpless. Bobby
felt himself sinking back, back into the sable pit.

"I don't want to go," he moaned.

A long time afterward he heard a whisper again, and he wondered if it was
the wind or his conscience. He laughed through the blackness because the
words seemed so absurd.

"Take off your shoes and carry them in your hand. Always do that. It is
the only safe way."

He laughed again, thinking:

"What a careful conscience!"

He retained only one more impression. He was dully aware that some time
had passed. He shivered. He thought the wind had grown angry with him,
for it no longer whispered. It shrieked, and he could make nothing of its