And he hastened straight down, running over the wet, soddened fields, pushing through the hedges, down into the depression of callous, wintry obscurity. It took him several minutes to come to the pond. He stood on the bank, breathing heavily. He could see nothing. His eyes seemed to penetrate the dead water. Yes, perhaps that was the dark shadow of her black clothing beneath the surface of the water.    He slowly ventured into the pond. The bottom was deep, soft clay, then he sank in, and the water clasped . . . his legs. As he stirred he could smell the cold, rottenclay that fouled up into the water. It was objectionable in his lungs. Still, repelled and yet not heeding, he moved deeper into the pond. The cold water rose over his thighs, over his loins, upon his abdomen. The lower part of his body was all sunk in the hideous cold element. And the bottom was so deeply soft and uncertain, he was afraid of pitching with his mouth underneath. He could not swim, and was afraid. 

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