Presently a large owl came noiselessly flying
by, and, perching on the topmost boughs of a neighbouring tree, began
hooting a succession of monotonous notes, sounding like the baying of
a bloodhound at a vast distance. Another owl by and by responded from
some far-off quarter, and the dreary duet was kept up for half an hour.
Whenever one bird ceased his solemn _boo-boo-boo-boo-boo_, I found
myself with stilled breath straining my sense to catch the answering
notes, fearing to stir lest I should lose them. A phosphorescent gleam
swept by close to my face, making me start at its sudden appearance,
then passed away, trailing a line of faint light over the dusky weeds.
The passing firefly served to remind me that I was not smoking, and
the thought then occurred to me that a cigar might possibly have the
effect of relieving me from the strange, indefinable feeling of
depression that had come over me. I put my hand into my pocket and
drew out a cigar, and bit the end off; but when about to strike a vesta
on my matchbox, I shuddered and dropped my hand.
The very thought of striking a loud, exploding match was unendurable
to me, so strangely nervous did I feel. Or possibly it was a
superstitious mood I had fallen into. It seemed to me at that moment
that I had somehow drifted into a region of mystery, peopled only by
unearthly, fantastic beings.
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