of a gong became now almost incessant, and filled the stillness of the
night with a faint, continuous ringing rather than a series of distinct
notes. At one time it was behind and at another time in front of us.
Sometimes I fancied it came from the bushes on our left, and then again
from the clumps on our right. More often it hovered directly overhead like
the whirring of wings. It was really everywhere at once, behind, in front,
at our sides and over our heads, completely surrounding us. The sound
really defies description. But nothing within my knowledge is like that
ceaseless muffled humming rising off the deserted world of swamps and
willows.

We sat smoking in comparative silence, the strain growing every minute
greater. The worst feature of the situation seemed to me that we did not
know what to expect, and could therefore make no sort of preparation by way
of defense. We could anticipate nothing. My explanations made in the
sunshine, moreover, now came to haunt me with their foolish and wholly
unsatisfactory nature, and it was more and more clear to us that some kind
of plain talk with my companion was inevitable, whether I liked it or not.
After all, we had to spend the night together, and to sleep in the same
tent side by side. I saw that I could not get along much longer without the
support of his mind, and for that, of course, plain talk was imperative. As
long as possible, however, I postponed this little climax, and tried to
ignore or laugh at the occasional sentences he flung into the emptiness.

Some of these sentences, moreover, were confoundedly disquieting to me,
coming as they did to corroborate much that I felt myself; corroboration,
too--which made it so much more convincing--from a totally different point
of view. He composed such curious sentences, and hurled them at me in such
an inconsequential sort of way, as though his main line of thought was
secret to himself, and these fragments were mere bits he found it