And so on for another long series, mostly quite incomprehensible gibberish to me about him , whoever he might be. I could have fancied it was a dream, but never before have I heard chanting in a dream.

“ His is the lightning flash,” we sang. “ His is the deep, salt sea.”

A horrible fancy came into my head that Moreau, after animalising these men, had infected their dwarfed brains with a kind of deification of himself. However, I was too keenly aware of white teeth and strong claws about me to stop my chanting on that account.