"A terrific roar broke on my ears, and a perfect hurricane of rain swept through the wood. I crept cold and shivering beneath the shelter of the trees. To my surprise a hand fell on my shoulder: it was a man, and, like myself, he shivered. "'Who are you?' he whispered, in a strangely hoarse voice. 'Who are you? Why are you here?' "'You wouldn't believe me if I told you,' I replied, shaking off the man's grasp. "'Well,--tell me,' he rejoined; 'for God's sake tell me.' He was frightened--trembling with fright. Could it be the storm, or was it--was it those trees? "I told him then and there why I had trespassed. I was fascinated--the wind--and the trees--had led me thither. "'So am I,' he whispered; 'I am fascinated. It is a long word, but it describes my sentiments. What did the wind sound like?' "I told him. He was a poor, common man, and had no poetical ideas. The wildly romantic had never interested him--he was but an ignorant labouring man. "'Sounded like sighing, groaning, and so on?' he said, repeating my words, and shifting uneasily from one foot to another. He was cold, horribly cold. 'Was that all?' "'Yes, of course. Why ask?' I replied. Then I laughed. This stupid, sturdy son of toil had been scared; to him the sounds had been those of his moorland bogies--things he had dreaded in his infancy. I told him so. He didn't like to hear me make fun of him. He didn't like my laugh, and he persisted: 'Was that all you heard?' "Then I grew impatient, and asked him to explain what he meant. "'Well,' he said, 'I thought I heard a scream,--a cry. Just as if some one had jumped out on some one else and taken them unawares. Maybe it was the wind--only the wind. But it had an eerie sound.' "The man was nervous. The storm had frightened away whatever little wit he may have possessed. "'Come, let us be going,' I said, moving off in the direction of the wall. I wanted to find a new exit; I was tired of paths. "The man kept close to me. I could hear his teeth chatter. Accidentally his hand brushed against mine. His flesh was icy cold. He gave a cry as if a snake had bitten him. Then the truth flashed through me. The man was mad. His terror, his strange manner of showing it, and now this sudden shrinking from me revealed it all--he was mad--the moon and trees had done their work. "'I'm not going that way,' he said, 'come along with me. I want to see which of the trees it was that cried.' "His voice was changed; he seemed suddenly to have grown stranger. There was no insanity in his tone now. But I knew the cunning of the insane, and I feared to anger him, so I acquiesced. What an idea! One of the trees had cried! Did he mean the wind?