winter midnights
* * * * * It was late when Monsieur le Curé left me alone by my fire . I can not say `` alone , '' for the Essence of Selfishness , was purring on my chest . In this old _ normand _ house of mine by the marsh , there comes a silence at this hour which is exhilarating . Out of these winter midnights come strange sounds , whirring flights of sea-fowl whistle over my roof , in late for a lodging on the marsh . A heavy peasant 's cart goes by , groaning in agony under the brake . When the wind is from the sea , it is like a bevy of witches shrilling my doom down the chimney . `` Aye , aye , 't is he , '' they seem to scream , `` the stranger -- the s-t-r-a-n-g-e-r . ''