Neither of us said a word.  We both knew that sleep was the safest thing we could do, and to bed we went accordingly without further delay, having first thrown sand on the fire and taken the provision sack and the paddle inside the tent with us.  The canoe, too, we propped in such a way at the end of the tent that our feet touched it, and the least motion would disturb and wake us.

In case of emergency, too, we again went to bed in our clothes, ready for a sudden start.

It was my firm intention to lie awake all night and watch, but the exhaustion of nerves and body decreed otherwise, and sleep after a while came over me with a welcome blanket of oblivion.  The fact that my companion also slept quickened its approach.  At first he fidgeted and constantly sat up, asking me if I “heard this” or “heard that.”  He tossed about on his cork mattress, and said the tent was moving and the river had risen over the point of the island, but each time I went out to look I returned with the report that all was well, and finally he grew calmer and lay still.  Then at length his breathing became regular and I heard unmistakable sounds of snoring—­the first and only time in my life when snoring has been a welcome and calming influence.

This, I remember, was the last thought in my mind before dozing off.

A difficulty in breathing woke me, and I found the blanket over my face.  But something else besides the blanket was pressing upon me, and my first thought was that my companion had rolled off his mattress on to my own in his sleep.  I called to him and sat up, and at the same moment it came to me that the tent was surrounded.  That sound of multitudinous soft pattering was again audible outside, filling the night with horror.

I called again to him, louder than before.  He did not answer, but I missed the sound of his snoring, and also noticed that the flap of the tent was down.  This was the unpardonable sin.  I crawled out in the darkness to hook it back securely, and it was then for the first time I realized positively that the Swede was not here.  He had gone.

I dashed out in a mad run, seized by a dreadful agitation, and the moment I was out I plunged into a sort of torrent of humming that surrounded me completely and came out of every quarter of the heavens at once.  It was that same familiar humming—­gone mad!  A swarm of great invisible bees might have been about me in the air.  The sound seemed to thicken the very atmosphere, and I felt that my lungs worked with difficulty.

But my friend was in danger, and I could not hesitate.

The dawn was just about to break, and a faint whitish light spread upwards over the clouds from a thin strip of clear horizon.  No wind stirred.  I could just make out the bushes and river beyond, and the pale sandy patches.  In my excitement I ran frantically to and fro about the island, calling him by name, shouting at the top of my voice the first words that came into my head.  But the willows smothered my voice, and the humming muffled it, so that the sound only traveled a few feet round me.  I plunged among the bushes, tripping headlong, tumbling over roots, and scraping my face as I tore this way and that among the preventing branches.