I gazed sleepily at them, too lazy even to turn my head away, till gradually it dawned upon me that I had been mistaken in supposing that the stone was black. Its colour was red. I rubbed my eyes, and sat up in bed. Yes, the stone was certainly red—a heavy dark red. And yet as I looked it became clear to me that the stone was by no means a dark red. It was a living red, the colour of blood. I jumped from my bed, and touched the stone with my fore-finger. It burnt.
I am not a nervous man, but I confess to feeling startled and troubled. Was I going blind? Was I in for a serious illness? I had been working and worrying overmuch of late, and Nature, I knew, sometimes sent her warnings through odd channels. But then why should the stone burn? I pulled myself together, bathed and dressed leisurely, concentrating my mind by a great effort on other subjects. Half an hour passed. I then looked again. The stone stood in the shade, and was quite black—as black as a mourning hat-band.
Could. . . ? Could. . . ? I lifted the stone, it was now cold and moist to the touch, and again placed it in the centre of the beam of light, gazing intently with paper and pencil in my hand to note exactly what happened.
The rays of the sun concentrated themselves upon its surface, and, as the thing warmed, the deep black of its normal condition gave place to a dull red. Presently the red grew into a glow like a November sunset, then it hissed to a white heat, the colour of a furnace fire, and there before me was the thing palpitating and panting as if it were alive. With the point of my penknife I pushed it still further into the light, and even as I looked—it moved.
Methodically and carefully I cut two thin strips of paper, and placed them upon the table at either side of the stone. Then Iclosed
