“It is they,” I repeated. “What other men can be thirty leagues under ground?”

I again began to listen. Passing my ear over the wall from one place to another, I found the point where the voices seemed to be best heard. The word förlorad again returned; then the rolling of thunder which had roused me from my lethargy.

“No,” I said, “no; it is not through such a mass that a voice can be heard. I am surrounded by granite walls, and the loudest explosion could never be heard here! This noise comes along the gallery. There must be here some remarkable exercise of acoustic laws!”

I listened again, and this time, yes this time, I did distinctly hear my name pronounced across the wide interval.

It was my uncle’s own voice! He was talking to the guide. And förlorad is a Danish word.