I was too much puzzled to pay much attention to his words. I listened carefully, striving to associate it with any known familiar sound I could think of, but without success. It changed in the direction, too, coming nearer, and then sinking utterly away into remote distance. I cannot say that it was ominous in quality, because to me it seemed distinctly musical, yet I must admit it set going a distressing feeling that made me wish I had never heard it. “The wind blowing in those sand-funnels,” I said determined to find an explanation, “or the bushes rubbing together after the storm perhaps.” “It comes off the whole swamp,” my friend answered. “It comes from everywhere at once.” He ignored my explanations. “It comes from the willow bushes somehow—” “But now the wind has dropped,” I objected. “The willows can hardly make a noise by themselves, can they?” His answer frightened me, first because I had dreaded it, and secondly, because I knew intuitively it was true. “It is _because_ the wind has dropped we now hear it. It was drowned before. It is the cry, I believe, of the—” I dashed back to my fire, warned by the sound of bubbling that the stew was in danger, but determined at the same time to escape further conversation. I was resolute, if possible, to avoid the exchanging of views. I dreaded, too, that he would begin about the gods, or the elemental forces, or something else disquieting, and I wanted to keep myself well in hand for what might happen later. There was another night to be faced before we escaped from this distressing place, and there was no knowing yet what it might bring forth. “Come and cut up bread for the pot,” I called to him, vigorously stirring the appetizing mixture. That stew-pot held sanity for us both, and the thought made me laugh. He came over slowly and took the provision sack from the tree, fumbling in its mysterious depths, and then emptying the entire contents upon the ground-sheet at his feet. “Hurry up!” I cried; “it’s boiling.” The Swede burst out into a roar of laughter that startled me. It was forced laughter, not artificial exactly, but mirthless. “There’s nothing here!” he shouted, holding his sides. “Bread, I mean.” “It’s gone. There is no bread. They’ve taken it!” I dropped the long spoon and ran up. Everything the sack had contained lay upon the ground-sheet, but there was no loaf. The whole dead weight of my growing fear fell upon me and shook me. Then I burst out laughing too. It was the only thing to do: and the sound of my laughter also made me understand his. The stain of psychical pressure caused it—this explosion of unnatural laughter in both of us; it was an effort of repressed forces to seek relief; it was a temporary safety-valve. And with both of us it ceased quite suddenly.