"There will be rain tomorrow." Mrs. Ingmar said, as we parted for
the night. I closed my door. Some great cat of the woods was
crying harshly outside my window, the sound receding towards the
bridle way. I slept in a dream of tossing seas and ships
labouring among them.

With the sense of a summons I waked - I cannot tell when.
Unmistakable, as if I were called by name. I rose and dressed,
and heard distinctly bare feet passing my door. I opened it
noiselessly and looked out into the little passage way that made
for the entry, and saw nothing but pools of darkness and a dim
light from the square of the window at the end. But the wind had
swept the sky clear with its flying bosom and was sleeping now in
its high places and the air was filled with a mild moony radiance
and a great stillness.

Now let me speak with restraint and exactness. I was not afraid
but felt as I imagine a dog feels in the presence of his master,
conscious of a purpose, a will entirely above his own and
incomprehensible, yet to be obeyed without question. I followed
my reading of the command, bewildered but docile, and
understanding nothing but that I was called.

The lights were out. The house dead silent; the familiar veranda
ghostly in the night. And now I saw a white figure at the head of
the steps - Brynhild. She turned and looked over her shoulder,
her face pale in the moon, and made the same gesture with which
she summoned her birds. I knew her meaning, for now we were
moving in the same rhythm, and followed as she took the lead. How