“Our little party consisted of a friend and myself, with an escort of eight spahis and four camels, with their keepers. We spoke not a word, for we were well-nigh exhausted and our parched throats were as dry as the desert that stretched in front of us. Suddenly one of the men gave a sort of startled cry; we all stopped and remained motionless in our saddles from sheer amazement at a startling and unaccountable phenomenon known to all travellers in those wild regions.
“From somewhere in the immediate vicinity, we were unable to determine the exact location, came the sound of a beating drum, the mysterious drum of the downs. The sound was perfectly distinct. Sometimes it would increase or decrease in volume and then it would stop altogether, only to begin again after a little while.
“The Arabs, scared to death, exchanged terrified glances. One of them uttered in his own tongue: ‘Death is upon us.’ And all of a sudden my friend, who was as dear as a brother to me, toppled from his horse, stricken with sunstroke.
“And during the two mortal hours in which I tried everything I knew to save him, that drum filled my ears with its strange, monotonous, intermittent beatings. And I felt fear, genuine, horrible fear, creep over me at the sight of the corpse of my beloved friend in that dreadful African hole scorched by the sun and enclosed by four sand hills and where, at a distance of at least two hundred miles from any French village, the echo brought us the sound of a rapidly beating drum.
“That day I realized what it was to feel fear; I realized it even more fully another time …”
The captain interrupted the speaker to inquire:
“Excuse me, sir, but what was the drum, after all?”
The traveller resumed:
“I really cannot tell you. Nobody knows. Officers who have often heard the sound attribute it to the multiplied and magnified echo of sheets of sand hurled by the wind against clumps of dry grass; for it has been noticed that the phenomenon always takes place in the neighbourhood of small plants that the heat of the sun has rendered as dry as parchment.
“According to that, the drum would only be a sort of sound mirage. But I only learned that later.
“Now I will relate my second experience.
“It was last winter and I was in a forest in the northeastern part of France. Night came two hours before its time, so dark was the sky. My guide was a peasant, who walked alongside of me in the narrow path, under a dome of pine-trees that shook and groaned under the furious wind. Between the treetops I could see the clouds hurrying past like a scattered army and they looked as if they were fleeing from some unknown horror. At times, under a dreadful gale of wind, the whole forest would bend in one direction and utter a moan of distress. In spite of my heavy clothing and rapid motion, the cold was beginning to penetrate me to the marrow.
“We were to put up over night at a forester’s home, and we were rapidly approaching the cottage. I had planned to spend a few days in the forest for the shooting.
“From time to time the guide would raise his eyes and mutter: ‘Bad weather, this.’ Then he spoke to me of the people who were to be our hosts. The old man had killed a poacher two years ago, and since then he had grown morose, as if he were haunted by the recollection of his deed. His two married sons lived with him.
“The darkness was terrible. I could not distinguish a thing and the sighing trees filled the night with incessant rumours. At last I saw a light, and after a little while my companion knocked on a door. Several shrill women’s cries answered from within. Then a tremulous man’s voice demanded: ‘Who goes there?’ My guide gave his name. We were admitted and I was confronted by a scene that I shall never forget.
“An old, white-haired man, with staring eyes, was standing in the middle of the kitchen, his fingers closed in a convulsive clasp around a loaded rifle, while two sturdy young men with axes were guarding the door. Two women, their faces buried in their hands, were crouching in a dark corner of the room.
“When we explained that we wished to remain over night, the old man stood the rifle against the wall and ordered the women to prepare our sleeping quarters. But, as they made no move to carry out his command, he turned to me abruptly and said:
“ ‘You see, monsieur, I killed a man two years ago this very night. Last year he came back and called me, and I expect him tonight.’
“Then, in a voice that made me smile, he added:
“ ‘We don’t feel very comfortable, you understand.’
“I reassured him as best I could, although, in my heart, I was glad to have come that very night, so that I might witness the manifestation of that superstitious terror. I told stories and succeeded in quieting almost everyone present.
“Near the hearth an old and half-blind dog was dozing with his nose between his paws. He looked for all the world like some people I’ve seen.
“Outside the storm was raging with great violence and the little house shook under the furious wind. Through a narrow window set near the door I could see the trees sway and the lightning flash through the black clouds.
“In spite of my efforts to cheer them, I could feel that these people experienced a mysterious dread and each time that I ceased talking, they would strain their ears to catch any unwonted sound.
“Tired of witnessing such stupid fears, I was about
