"You know whom I mean," answered the strange man, as he lay back
on cushions and looked up into the angry sky.

They seemed rising into stronger and stronger sunlight, as if it
were sunrise rather than sunset. But when they looked down at the
earth they saw it growing darker and darker. The lunatic asylum
in its large rectangular grounds spread below them in a
foreshortened and infantile plan, and looked for the first time
the grotesque thing that it was. But the clear colours of the
plan were growing darker every moment. The masses of rose or
rhododendron deepened from crimson to violet. The maze of gravel
pathways faded from gold to brown. By the time they had risen a
few hundred feet higher nothing could be seen of that darkening
landscape except the lines of lighted windows, each one of which,
at least, was the light of one lost intelligence. But on them as
they swept upward better and braver winds seemed to blow, and on
them the ruby light of evening seemed struck, and splashed like
red spurts from the grapes of Dionysus. Below them the fallen
lights were literally the fallen stars of servitude. And above
them all the red and raging clouds were like the leaping flags of
liberty.

The man with the cloven chin seemed to have a singular power of
understanding thoughts; for, as Turnbull felt the whole universe
tilt and turn over his head, the stranger said exactly the right
thing.

"Doesn't it seem as if everything were being upset?" said he;
"and if once everything is upset, He will be upset on top of it."