The waters moved; distinctly moved near to where I stood, and from their dark depths something appeared--I could not at first tell what. What could it be? A monster of frightful mien? the ghost of some murdered man or woman? I could have believed in either just then. It was neither. What then? A human hand, large and shapely, appeared distinctly on the surface of the pond. Nothing more, not even the wrist to which it might be attached. It did not beckon, or indeed move at all; it was as still as the hand of death. I stood motionless and watched, while the outline of the hand became more clear; then I gave an awful shudder. _The hand was red._ I gave a shriek, and for a time remembered nothing more. * * * * * I awoke to consciousness, fighting. At first it seemed as if I was fighting with a phantom, but gradually my opponent became more real to me. It was Kaffar. I had only a dim hazy idea of what I was doing, except that I sought to wrest from his hand a knife. We clutched each other savagely, and wrestled there on the edge of the pond. Weights seemed to hang upon my limbs, but I felt the stronger of the two. Gradually I knew I was mastering him--then all was blank. * * * * * A sound of voices. A flash of light. A feeling of freedom, and I was awake! Where? Still by Drearwater Pond. No phantoms, no shadow, nothing unreal, save the memory of that which I have but dimly described. That was but as a terrible nightmare--an awful dream. Where was Kaffar? I could not tell. Certainly he was not near; but two other forms stood by me, one bearing a lantern. "Is it you, Justin?" said a voice. "It is I, Tom," I said, looking vacantly around. "And where is Kaffar?" said another voice, which I recognized as Voltaire's. "Kaffar? I--I do not know." "But you have been together." "Have we?" I said vacantly. "You know you have. What is that in your hand?" I had scarcely known what I had been saying or doing up to this time, but as he spoke I looked at my hand. In the light of the moon I saw a knife red with blood, and my hand, too, was also discoloured. "What does this mean?" cried Voltaire. "I do not know. I am dazed--bewildered." "But that is Kaffar's knife. I know he had it this very evening. Where is Kaffar now?" "Is it true?" I remember saying. "Have we been together?" "That's his knife, at any rate. And what is this?" Voltaire picked up something from the ground and looked at it. "Kaffar's," he said. "Look, Mr. Blake; do you recognize this?" I looked and saw a finely-worked neckcloth, on which was written in Arabic characters the words "Aba Wady Kaffar." It had every appearance of being soiled by severe wrenching, and on it were spots of blood. My faculties were rapidly returning to me, yet I stood as one in a dream.