That evening an agitated young couple sat close together in the
deserted camp, calling timidly at intervals for Professor Smawl and
William Spike. I say timidly, because it is correct; we did not care
to have a mammoth respond to our calls. The lurking echoes across the
lake answered our cries; the full moon came up over the forest to look
at us. We were not much to look at. Dorothy was moistening my shoulder
with unfeigned tears, and I, afraid to light the fire, sat hunched up
under the common blanket, wildly examining the darkness around us.

Chilled to the spinal marrow, I watched the gray lights whiten in the
east. A single bird awoke in the wilderness. I saw the nearer trees
looming in the mist, and the silver fog rolling on the lake.

All night long the darkness had vibrated with the strange monotone
which I had heard the first night, camping at the gate of the unknown
land. My brain seemed to echo that subtle harmony which rings in the
auricular labyrinth after sound has ceased.

There are ghosts of sound which return to haunt long after sound is
dead. It was these voiceless spectres of a voice long dead that
stirred the transparent silence, intoning toneless tones.

I think I make myself clear.

It was an uncanny night; morning whitened the east; gray daylight
stole into the woods, blotting the shadows to paler tints. It was
nearly mid-day before the sun became visible through the fine-spun web
of mist--a pale spot of gilt in the zenith.

By this pallid light I labored to strike the two empty tents, gather