He turned and, trailing rags and streamers of rotten cloth that once
had been a business suit, he waded through the confusion of wreckage
on the floor to the window.

If you have seen a weather-beaten scarecrow flapping in the wind, you
have some notion of his outward guise. No tramp you ever laid eyes on
could have offered so preposterous an appearance.

Down over his shoulders fell the matted, dusty hair. His tangled beard
reached far below his waist. Even his eyebrows, naturally rather
light, had grown to a heavy thatch above his eyes.

Save that he was not gray or bent, and that he still seemed to have
kept the resilient force of vigorous manhood, you might have thought
him some incredibly ancient Rip Van Winkle come to life upon that
singular stage, there in the tower.

But little time gave he to introspection or the matter of his own
appearance. With one quick gesture he swept away the shrouding tangle
of webs, spiders, and dead flies that obscured the window. Out he
peered.

"Good Heavens!" cried he, and started back a pace.

She ran to him.

"What is it?" she breathlessly exclaimed.

"Why, I don't know--yet. But this is something big! Something
universal! It's--it's--no, no, you'd better not look out--not just