not say.

"Who calls me," I cried, facing round.

Then a chill that was not of cold wind and snow fell on me, for
there was silence, and into my mind crept the knowledge of where I
had last heard that voice. It was long years ago--at Eastdean in
half-forgotten Sussex.

"Father!" I cried. "Father!"

There was no reply, and I stood there for what seemed a long time
waiting one. I called again and again in vain.

"It is weakness," I said to myself at last, and turned.

At once the voice was wailing, with some wild terror as it seemed,
at my very shoulder, with its cry of my name, and I must needs turn
once more sharply:

"Oswald, Oswald!"

My foot struck a stone as I wheeled round, and it grated on others
and seemed to stop. But as I listened for the voice I heard a
crash, and yet another, and at last a far-off rumble that was below
my very feet, and I sprang with a cry away from the sound, for I
knew that I stood on the very brink of some gulf. And then the snow
ceased for a moment and the moon shone out from the break in the
clouds, and I saw that my last footprint whence the voice had made
me turn was on the edge of an awesome rift that cleft the level