«Русские ночи»

... A weird and awful feeling, yet strangely fascinating! He hated the vulgar
necessity for going back to dinner. Why do people dine at all? So material! so
commonplace! And the universe all teeming with strange secrets to unfold! He
knew not why, but a fierce desire possessed his soul to stop and give way to
this overpowering sense of the mysterious and the marvellous in the dark depths
of the barrow.

With an effort he roused himself and put on his hat, which he had been holding
in his hand for his

forehead was burning. The sun had now long set, and Mrs. Bouverie-Barton dined
at 7.30 punctually. He must rise and go home. Something unknown pulled him down
to detain him. Once more he paused and hesitated. He was not a superstitious man,
yet it seemed to him as if many strange shapes stood by unseen and watched with
great eagerness to see whether he would rise and go away, or yield to the
temptation of stopping and indulging his curious fancy. Strange! — he saw and
heard absolutely nobody and nothing; yet he dimly realised that unseen figures
were watching him close with bated breath and anxiously observing his every
movement, as if intent to know whether he would rise and move on, or remain to
investigate this causeless sensation.

For a minute or two he stood irresolute; and all the time he so stood the unseen
bystanders held their breath and looked on in an agony of expectation. He could
feel their outstretched necks; he could picture their strained attention. At
last he broke away. "This is nonsense," he said aloud to himself, and turned
slowly homeward. As he did so, a deep sigh, as of suspense relieved, but
relieved in the wrong direction, seemed to rise — unheard, impalpable, spiritual
— from the invisible crowd that gathered around him immaterial. Clutched hands
seemed to stretch after him and try to pull him back...