'No, I haven't,' interrupted Lamont. 'I have scarcely tasted the stuff. Why are you out on such a night?'
'The spirits of the dead call us in the storm,' said she fearfully. 'They shriek in the thunder; their hollow eyes stare from the lightning; their cold breath beats in the rain. It is terrible to stay within, and hear them fighting. Yet it may be death to venture outside.'
'Why did you?'
She touched the box with light finger tips. 'I kept this buried beneath a forest tree; but I feared lest a Spirit might snatch it in the storm.'
Lamont laughed. 'Spirits could steal away nothing.'
'They breathe, and the substance vanishes; they touch, and it melts. Often have I seen the wind carrying a tree uprooted. I have also looked upon a tent borne on the storm. There is a Spirit in the wind.'
A furious roar of thunder convulsed the dread silence. As it died away, Dave burst into renewed howlings, and commenced an attack upon the table with the black bottle.
'You shouldn't have come here.'
'Why not?'
'Two drunken men—and you.' He shrugged his shoulders.