Anthony looked curiously at the man; the rays of the lantern were in his face, and his deep-set eyes showed the habit of fear. "The main road is a good piece away," said he. "I'm glad of that, for I'm afraid of roads. There are many strange things that happen on them. If you listen, in quiet weather," said he, and pointed in the direction of the highway, "you can hear that one speak. Of a night in the summer-time I lie awake and listen to it whispering in its sleep as though it were dreaming. The dreams of roads must be strange ones," said the man. "There are times when they must be monstrous. And I keep from them as much as I may." "It is a queer thing to be afraid of a road," said Anthony. "You'd not say that if you'd had as much to do with them as I," said the man. "I know what they are. Much danger is to be met on roads; many an honest man has lost his life upon them; and many a foul thing creeps along their lengths." "I've traveled a deal," said Anthony, "and I've met with no harm." The man shook his head. "Do not trust them," he said. "More than any other time, do not trust them of a night. There is more goes on of a night on the road than is thought." "If a man does not come to know the highways by traveling them, how is he to do it?" asked Anthony. "To know a road, even in a small way," said the man, "you must live by the side of it a very long time. You must lie down by it in the darkness; you must listen for its mutterings, and to the pulse that beats always in it; you must give your mind to the messages it brings of happenings a long way off. Yes, roads are strange, and for all their talk you never get the full truth of their doings. That's why I am afraid of them. When travel is high, and they are flowing along, they try to take one with them. Did you know that? You can feel them reaching out for you and grasping at you. A quiet place is best; and this place is very quiet. There is nothing goes by this door that might take one up and away. Yes, it's very quiet here; there is nothing to be afraid of." Anthony went back to the fire, and sat for an hour or more considering what he'd better do next day; then he called the landlord, and a porter was given a candle and told to show him to his room. This was at the side of the house facing the river; and when the porter had gone Anthony blew out the candle, pulled back the window-curtains, and stood looking out. The wind was blowing in gusts, and had a thin, bitter sound; clouds were driving along the sky; the stars were small and cold and far away. Across the dismal wrack of the winter marsh he saw the ice-choked river, running like a gray streak across the darkness. He watched this for some time; then he drew the curtains once more, relighted the candle, opened his roll of belongings, and prepared for bed.