I can lay claim to no courage in the matter, for I must confess that in one sense I was frightened almost beyond control.  But at the same time the necessity for decided action, if I was to save his life, came to me with an intense relief.  No matter what animated him for the moment, Shorthouse was only a man; it was flesh and blood I had to contend with and not the intangible powers.  Only a few hours before I had seen him cleaning his gun, smoking his pipe, knocking the billiard balls about with very human clumsiness, and the picture flashed across my mind with the most wholesome effect.

Then I dashed across the floor of the barn and leaped upon the hay bales as a preliminary to climbing up the sides to the first rafter.  It was far more difficult than in my dream.  Twice I slipped back into the hay, and as I scrambled up for the third time I saw that Shorthouse, who thus far had made no sound or movement, was now busily doing something with his hands upon the beam.  He was at its further end, and there must have been fully fifteen feet between us.  Yet I saw plainly what he was doing; he was fastening the rope to the rafter. The other end, I saw, was already round his neck!

This gave me at once the necessary strength, and in a second I had swung myself on to a beam, crying aloud with all the authority I could put into my voice—­

“You fool, man!  What in the world are you trying to do?  Come down at once!”

My energetic actions and words combined had an immediate effect upon him for which I blessed Heaven; for he looked up from his horrid task, stared hard at me for a second or two, and then came wriggling along like a great cat to intercept me.  He came by a series of leaps and bounds and at an astonishing pace, and the way he moved somehow inspired me with a fresh horror, for it did not seem the natural movement of a human being at all, but more, as I have said, like that of some lithe wild animal.

He was close upon me.  I had no clear idea of what exactly I meant to do.  I could see his face plainly now; he was grinning cruelly; the eyes were positively luminous, and the menacing expression of the mouth was most distressing to look upon.  Otherwise it was the face of a chalk man, white and dead, with all the semblance of the living human drawn out of it.  Between his teeth he held my clasp knife, which he must have taken from me in my sleep, and with a flash I recalled his anxiety to know exactly which pocket it was in.

“Drop that knife!” I shouted at him, “and drop after it yourself—­”

“Don’t you dare to stop me!” he hissed, the breath coming between his lips across the knife that he held in his teeth.  “Nothing in the world can stop me now—­I have promised—­and I must do it.  I can’t hold out any longer.”

“Then drop the knife and I’ll help you,” I shouted back in his face.  “I promise—­”

“No use,” he cried, laughing a little, “I must do it and you can’t stop me.”