Charley Steele was lying under the waters of the great river, his bones rotting there for a year, yet here was his voice coming out of the night, in response to his own grotesque imitation of the dead man.

Seeing his agitation, women turned pale, men felt their flesh creep, imagination gave a thrilling coldness to the air.

For a moment the silence was unbroken.

Then John Brown stretched out his hand and said, in a hoarse whisper: "It was his voice--Charley's voice, and he's been dead a year!" Within half-an-hour, in utter collapse and fright, he was being driven to the next parish by two young habitants whom he paid to accompany him..