soul was full of great astonishment. He had to go and
look where it came from, though the ground was going from under
his feet. He went on, down towards the pond, shakily. He rather
enjoyed it. He was knee-deep, and the water was pulling heavily.
He stumbled, reeled sickeningly.

Fear took hold of him. Gripping tightly to the lamp, he
reeled, and looked round. The water was carrying his feet away,
he was dizzy. He did not know which way to turn. The water was
whirling, whirling, the whole black night was swooping in rings.
He swayed uncertainly at the centre of all the attack, reeling
in dismay. In his soul, he knew he would fall.

As he staggered something in the water struck his legs, and
he fell. Instantly he was in the turmoil of suffocation. He
fought in a black horror of suffocation, fighting, wrestling,
but always borne down, borne inevitably down. Still he wrestled
and fought to get himself free, in the unutterable struggle of
suffocation, but he always fell again deeper. Something struck
his head, a great wonder of anguish went over him, then the
blackness covered him entirely.

In the utter darkness, the unconscious, drowning body was
rolled along, the waters pouring, washing, filling in the place.
The cattle woke up and rose to their feet, the dog began to
yelp. And the unconscious, drowning body was washed along in the
black, swirling darkness, passively.

Mrs. Brangwen woke up and listened. With preternaturally
sharp senses she heard the movement of all the darkness that
swirled outside. For a moment she lay still. Then she went to
the window. She heard the sharp rain, and the deep running of
water. She knew her husband was outside.

"Fred," she called, "Fred!"

Away in the night was a hoarse, brutal roar of a mass of
water rushing downwards.

She went downstairs. She could not understand the multiplied
running of water. Stepping down the step into the kitchen, she
put her foot into water. The kitchen was flooded. Where did it
come from? She could not understand.

Water was running in out of the scullery. She paddled through
barefoot, to see. Water was bubbling fiercely under the outer
door. She was afraid. Then something washed against her,
something twined under her foot. It was the riding whip. On the
table were the rug and the cushion and the parcel from the
gig.

He had come home.

"Tom!" she called, afraid of her own voice.

She opened the door. Water ran in with a horrid sound.
Ev