Some huge thing hurtled against us in the darkness, rearing, stamping, smashing, springing, snorting. The table was splintered. We were scattered in every direction. It clattered and scrambled amongst us, rushing with horrible energy from one corner of the room to another. We were all screaming with fear, grovelling upon our hands and knees to get away from it. Something trod upon my left hand, and I felt the bones splinter under the weight. “A light! A light!” some one yelled. “Moir, you have matches, matches!” “No, I have none. Deacon, where are the matches? For God’s sake, the matches!” “I can’t find them. Here, you Frenchman, stop it!” “It is beyond me. Oh, _mon Dieu_, I cannot stop it. The door! Where is the door?” My hand, by good luck, lit upon the handle as I groped about in the darkness. The hard-breathing, snorting, rushing creature tore past me and butted with a fearful crash against the oaken partition. The instant that it had passed I turned the handle, and next moment we were all outside, and the door shut behind us. From within came a horrible crashing and rending and stamping. “What is it? In Heaven’s name, what is it?” “A horse. I saw it when the door opened. But Mrs. Delamere----?” “We must fetch her out. Come on, Markham; the longer we wait the less we shall like it.” He flung open the door and we rushed in. She was there on the ground amidst the splinters of her chair. We seized her and dragged her swiftly out, and as we gained the door I looked over my shoulder into the darkness. There were two strange eyes glowing at us, a rattle of hoofs, and I had just time to slam the door when there came a crash upon it which split it from top to bottom. “It’s coming through! It’s coming!” “Run, run for your lives!” cried the Frenchman. Another crash, and something shot through the riven door. It was a long white spike, gleaming in the lamplight. For a moment it shone before us, and then with a snap it disappeared again. “Quick! Quick! This way!” Harvey Deacon shouted. “Carry her in! Here! Quick!” We had taken refuge in the dining-room, and shut the heavy oak door. We laid the senseless woman upon the sofa, and as we did so, Moir, the hard man of business, drooped and fainted across the hearth-rug. Harvey Deacon was as white as a corpse, jerking and twitching like an epileptic. With a crash we heard the studio door fly to pieces, and the snorting and stamping were in the passage, up and down, shaking the house with their fury. The Frenchman had sunk his face on his hands, and sobbed like a frightened child. “What shall we do?” I shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Is a gun any use?” “No, no. The power will pass. Then it will end.” “You might have killed us all--you unspeakable fool--with your infernal experiments.” “I did not know. How could I tell that it would be frightened? It is mad with terror. It was his fault. He struck it.” Harvey Deacon sprang up. “Good heavens!” he cried.