the flimsy
bridge. A short hatchet, such as butchers use, was in her hand. She
leant against a pine trunk, with her arm behind her, as one stands
whose back aches with long stooping in some cramped position; and even
at that distance I could see the cruel smile about her lips.

"Then I recrossed the ridge, and crawled down again, and, waiting
until evening, walked slowly up the path. As I came in view of the
house she saw me, and waved her handkerchief to me, and in answer I
waved my hat, and shouted curses at her that the wind whirled away
into the torrent. She met me with a kiss, and I breathed no hint to
her that I had seen. Let her devil's work remain undisturbed. Let it
prove to me what manner of thing this is that haunts me. If it be a
spirit, then the bridge wilt bear it safely; if it be woman--

"But I dismiss the thought. If it be human thing, why does it sit
gazing at me, never speaking? why does my tongue refuse to question
it? why does all power forsake me in its presence, so that I stand as
in a dream? Yet if it be spirit, why do I hear the passing of her
feet? and why does the night-rain glisten on her hair?

"I force myself back into my chair. It is far into the night, and I
am alone, waiting, listening. If it be spirit, she will come to me;
and if it be woman, I shall hear her cry above the storm--unless it be
a demon mocking me.

"I have heard the cry. It rose, piercing and shrill, above the storm,
above the riving and rending of the bridge, above the downward
crashing of the logs and loosened stones. I hear it as I listen now.
It is cleaving its way upward from the depths below. It is wailing
through the room as I sit writing.

"I have crawled upon my belly to the utmost edge of the still standing
pier, until I could feel with my hand the jagged splinters left by the
fallen planks, and have looked down. But the chasm was full to the
brim with darkness. I shouted, but the wind shook my voice into
mocking laughter. I sit here, feebly striking at the madness that is
creeping nearer and nearer to me. I tell myself the whole thing is
but the fever in my brain. The bridge was rotten. The storm was
strong. The cry is but a single one among the many voices of the
mountain. Yet still I listen; and it rises, clear and shrill, above
the moaning of the pines, above the sobbing of t