word "time" seemed to have been written here and erased in favour of something illegible—"before they get me. They are beating all about me."
Then the writing became convulsive. "I can hear them," I guessed the tracing meant; and then it was quite unreadable for a space. Then came a little string of words that were quite distinct, "a different sort of Selenite altogether, who appear to be directing the—" The writing became a mere hasty confusion again.
"They have larger brain-cases—much larger, and slender bodies and very short legs. They make gentle noises and move with organised deliberation. . . .
"And though I am wounded and helpless here, their appearance still gives me hope." That was like Cavor. "They have not shot at me or attempted—injury. I intend———"
Then came the sudden streak of the pencil across the paper, and on the back and edges—blood!
And as I stood there, stupid and perplexed, with this dumfounding relic in my hand, something very, very soft and light and chill touched my hand for a moment and ceased to be, and then a thing, a little white speck drifted athwart a shadow. It was a tiny snowflake, the first snowflake, the herald of the night.
I looked up with a start and the sky had darkened now almost to blackness and was thick with a gathering multitude of coldly watchful stars. I looked eastward, and the light of that shrivelled world was touched with a sombre bronze, westward, and the sun—robbed now by a thickening white mist of half its heat and splendour—was touching the
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