It was early in the afternoon of a mid-November day that one of the fiercest of these storms began, and lasted till early evening, when a great and unexpected peace descended upon the earth. Remarkably, the working of Nature was paralleled within the cave by an inexplicable scene. All through the morning the stranger had been conscious, sane, and unusually tranquil. After the noon meal he lay back on his bed with the avowed intention of sleeping; and Oman seated himself in the doorway of the hut, to watch the clouds roll up from the west and swirl close round the peak, in moisture-laden mists. For some moments the storm had been imminent; and Oman’s nerves were keyed for the first rush of the wind. His back was toward the bed. He could not know that the figure of the old man was suddenly upright. He could not see the fire of madness burning in the weird eyes, nor perceive that the shrunken muscles were as tense as those of a panther about to spring. But, in the first roar of the blast, with the first, fierce sweep of hail across the mountain top, the storm within also broke. Oman felt himself seized about the throat in an iron grip, and heard the shouting of the madman above the fury of the gale. The half hour that followed he never clearly remembered. There was a fierce, almost mortal struggle. Locked in each other’s arms, the two reeled and rolled about the cave, like animals. Oman fought simply to preserve himself; but he was pitted against a madman’s strength. Blinded and half-stunned by the suddenness of the attack, it was many minutes before he got full control of his own forces. He soon became aware that a flood of wild ravings was pouring from the old man’s lips; and finally, at the very climax of the battle, when Oman felt his strength giving way, the wanderer suddenly dropped his arms, and his maniacal force seemed to throw itself into words, which he screamed out till they sounded high above the gush and clamor of the storm: “Thou shalt not have it—thou shalt not, dog! Nor thou! Nor thou!—It is mine! The Asra ruby is mine own, given me in payment for work.—Ah—ye shall not take it from me! Faces—faces—faces!” The last words sank, grewsomely, to a whisper, as he struck out once and again into the air at the phantom forms that closed him round. Then, suddenly, without any warning, he flung both hands over his head, reeled, and dropped in a heap at Oman’s side. For a moment or two the hermit stood perfectly still, exhausted by the struggle that had passed. Then he took the unconscious man by the arms, and dragged and pulled him back to the bed, on which he placed him, limp and unresisting. Afterwards he went to replenish the fire, over which he busied himself for some minutes. Finally he returned to the doorway, and seated himself so that he could watch both the bed and the world without.