And I cried out: “For Christ’s sake, pass!” The voice answered: “We pass, sir. Farewell!” With a sound of plunging the water rose black through the mist to the level of the Bridge, fell again, and all was once more still. “I’m haunted!” I thought; and crossed to the other side. There, again, before me on the parapet was a gray shape that said: “I am the Bill of the Slaughtered Beasts.” And, on the instant, there came at me in the air, as though I were the centre of a wheel, a million spokes of beasts, great beasts and little, snorting, writhing, quivering, with a sound of the gurgling of blood. And in terror I cried: “Pass!” The voice answered: “We pass, sir. Farewell.” And the river ran by below, swollen to the height of a hill—all red. I began to run, crying out: “Enough!” But still there on the parapet before me was the thin gray shape, and its voice said: “I am the Bill of the Caged Wild Songbirds.” And from the darkness above came the flutter of myriads of tiny hearts maddened with terror, and a sound such as no other man can have heard—of thousands on thousands of little wings struggling, beating, struggling against cage wires. That sound came slanting down to the water like a swallow dipping, and passed—invisible as wind. On either parapet, before me, behind, were many, many thin gray shapes, like rows of penguins. They sighed and waved, moving this way and that, as though saying farewell, then one by one dived and passed into the dark water below. And the whole air was alive with the sobbing of men and women, of children, and the cries of pain and terror from beasts and birds. And just as I thought that I, too, would leap down into the water and escape, the dawn broke . . . I rubbed my eyes. Nothing there, save the river running quiet and full, with a gray sheen on it; that bright clock joined once more to earth by its tower; and the sky flecked from pole to pole with tiny white clouds. A breeze fanned my face. Beside me on the Bridge a gentleman in top hat and black coat was stretching himself, and breathing deeply. I turned to him. “Did you see them, sir?” “See what?” “The Bills.” “What Bills?” “The Bills of Suffering! There, on the parapet; thin gray things, passing into nothing and the summer night?” He looked at me, and I saw he thought I was demented. Then, with a smile on his pleasant red face, he pointed to the Clock Tower, and said: “Bills! I get enough of them in there!” “Didn’t you even hear them?” He answered coldly: “My dear Sir, I am a matter-of-fact and hard-worked man, with no time to ‘see’ things; I have seen and heard nothing. I came out here for a breath of air after sitting there all night!” And pounding with his clenched fist at the air, he added: “We have just had a glorious scrap!” Understanding then that I must have dreamed, I begged his pardon and moved towards home, passing the Clock Tower. IV