The wind sobbed coldly; wan clouds sped to hood the moon with darkness. Brown hares crouched among the coarse marrum grasses, the dun owls were afloat upon the air, sounding their oboe notes, and always the high unseen flight of whistling ducks went on all over the desolate majesty of the marshes. And beyond it all, through it all, could be heard the hollow organs of the sea. Lothian was walking rapidly. His breathing was heavy and muffled. He skirted the marsh and did not go upon it, passing along the grass slope of foreshore which even a full marsh tide never conquered; going back upon his own trail, parallel to the village. There were sharp pricking pains in his knees and ankles. Hot sweat clotted his clothes to his body and rained down his face. But he was unaware of this. His alarming physical condition was as nothing. He went on through the dark, hurriedly, like a man in ambush. Now and then he stumbled at inequalities of the ground or caught his foot in furze roots. Obscene words escaped him when this happened. They burst from between the hot cracked lips, mechanical and thin. The weak complaints of some poor filthy-minded ghost! He knew nothing of what he said. But with knife-winds upon his face, thin needles in his joints; sodden flesh quivering with nervous tremors and wet with warm brine, he went onwards with purpose. He was in the Amnesic Dream-phase. Every foul and bestial impulse which is hidden in the nature of man was riotous and awake. The troglodytes showed themselves at last. All the unnameable, unthinkable things that lie deep below the soul, far below the conscience, in the lowest and sealed cellars of personality, had burst from their hidden prisons. The Temple of the Holy Ghost was full of the squeaking, gibbering Powers of utmost, nethermost Hell. --These are similes which endeavour to hint at the frightful Truth. Science sums it up in a simple statement. Lothian was now in "The Amnesic dream-phase." He came to where a grass road bounded by high hedges led down to the foreshore. Crouching under the sentinel hedge of the road's end, he lit a match and looked at his watch. It was fifteen minutes past ten o'clock. Old Phoebe Hannett and her daughter, the servants of Morton Sims at the "Haven," would now be fast in slumber. Christopher, the doctor's personal servant, was in Paris with his master. The Person who walked in a Dream turned up the unused grass-grown road. He was now at the East end of the village. The path brought him out upon the highroad a hundred yards above the rectory, Church, and the schools. From there it was a gentle descent to the very centre of the village, where the "Haven" was. There were no lights nor lamp-posts in the village. By now every one would be gone to bed. . . .