"The wind blowing in those sand-funnels," I said, determined to find an
explanation, "or the bushes rubbing together after the storm perhaps."

"It comes off the whole swamp," my friend answered. "It comes from
everywhere at once." He ignored my explanations. "It comes from the
willow bushes somehow----"

"But now the wind has dropped," I objected "The willows can hardly make
a noise by themselves, can they?"

His answer frightened me, first because I had dreaded it, and secondly,
because I knew intuitively it was true.

"It is _because_ the wind has dropped we now hear it. It was drowned
before. It is the cry, I believe of the----"

I dashed back to my fire, warned by a sound of bubbling that the stew
was in danger, but determined at the same time to escape from further
conversation. I was resolute, if possible, to avoid the exchanging of
views. I dreaded, too, that he would begin again about the gods, or the
elemental forces, or something else disquieting, and I wanted to keep
myself well in hand for what might happen later. There was another night
to be faced before we escaped from this distressing place, and there was
no knowing yet what it might bring forth.

"Come and cut up bread for the pot," I called to him, vigorously
stirring the appetizing mixture. That stew-pot held sanity for us both,
and the thought made me laugh.

He came over slowly and took the provision sack from the tree, fumbling