Suddenly Maria turned, her face quick with apprehension. She drew her wrapper closely about her, and crossed to Porgy’s door. With only half of the distance traversed, she heard a sound from the room. It was more of a muffled thump than anything else, and with it, something very like a gasp. When her hand closed over the knob all was silent again, except that she could hear a long, slightly shuddering breath. Then came a sound that caused her flesh to prickle with primal terror. It was so unexpected, there in the chill, silent night. It was Porgy’s laugh, but different. Out of the stillness it swelled suddenly, deep, aboriginal, lustful. Then it stopped short. Maria heard the baby cry out; then Bess’s voice, sleepy and mystified. “Fuh Gawd’ sake, Porgy, what yuh laughin’ ’bout?” “Dat all right, honey,” came the answer. “Don’t yuh be worryin’. Yuh gots Porgy now, an’ he look atter he ’oman. Ain’t I done tells yuh: Yuh gots er _man_ now.” Maria turned the knob, entered the room, and closed the door quickly behind her. Night trailed westward across the city. In the east, out beyond the ocean’s rim, essential light trembled upward and seemed to absorb rather than quench the morning stars. Out of the sliding planes of mist that hung like spent breath above the city, shapes began to emerge and assume their proper values. Far in the upper air over Catfish Row a speck appeared. It took a long, descending spiral, and became two, then three. Around a wide circle the specks swung, as though hung by wires from a lofty pivot. The light brightened perceptibly. The specks dropped to a lower level, increased in size, and miraculously became a dozen. Then some of them dropped in from the circumference of the circle, cutting lines across like the spokes of a wheel, and from time to time flapping indolent wings. Dark and menacing when they flew to the westward, they would turn easily toward the east, and the sun, still below the horizon, would gild their bodies with ruddy gold, as they sailed, breast on, toward it. Down, down they dropped, reaching low, and yet lower levels, until at last they seemed to brush the water-front buildings with their sombre wings. Then gradually they narrowed to a small circle that patrolled the air directly over a shape that lay awash in the rising tide, across the street from Catfish Row. Suddenly from the swinging circle a single bird planed down and lit with an awkward, hopping step directly before the object. For a moment he regarded it with bleak, predatory eyes; then flew back to his fellows. A moment later the whole flock swooped down, and the shape was hidden by flapping wings and black awkward bodies that hopped about and fought inward to the centre of the group. A negro who had been sleeping under an overturned bateau awoke and rubbed his eyes; then he sprang up and, seizing an oar, beat the birds away with savage blows.