When they had covered about half a mile, Maskull, who went second of
the party, staggered, caught the cliff, and finally sat down.

"The drink works. My old sensations are returning, but worse."

Haunte turned back. "Then you are a doomed man."

Maskull, though fully conscious of his companions and situation,
imagined that he was being oppressed by a black, shapeless,
supernatural being, who was trying to clasp him. He was filled with
horror, trembled violently, yet could not move a limb. Sweat tumbled
off his face in great drops. The waking nightmare lasted a long
time, but during that space it kept coming and going. At one moment
the vision seemed on the point of departing; the next it almost took
shape--which he knew would be his death. Suddenly it vanished
altogether--he was free. A fresh spring breeze fanned his face; he
heard the slow, solitary singing of a sweet bird; and it seemed to
him as if a poem had shot together in his soul. Such flashing,
heartbreaking joy he had never experienced before in all his life!
Almost immediately that too vanished.

Sitting up, he passed his hand across his eyes and swayed quietly,
like one who has been visited by an angel.

"Your colour changed to white," said Corpang. "What happened?"

"I passed through torture to love," replied Maskull simply.

He stood up. Haunte gazed at him sombrely. "Will you not describe