When I had been hunted in the past weeks there had been mystery enough, but no immediate peril to face.

When I had been up against a real, urgent, physical risk, like Loos, the danger at any rate had been clear.

One knew what one was in for.

But here was a threat I couldn't put a name to, and it wasn't in the future, but pressing hard at our throats.
And yet I couldn't feel it was quite real.

The patter of the pistol bullets against the wall, like so many crackers, the faces felt rather than seen in the dark, the clamour which to me was pure gibberish, had all the madness of a nightmare.