now it was night, and all the miasmatic ravine about me was black; and beyond, instead of a green, sunlit slope, I saw a red fire, before which hunched, grotesque figures moved to and fro. Farther were the thick trees, a bank of darkness, fringed above with the black lace of the upper branches. The moon was just riding up on the edge of the ravine, and like a bar across its face drove the spire of vapour that was forever streaming from the fumaroles of the island.
“Walk by me,” said I, nerving myself; and side by side we walked down the narrow way, taking little heed of the dim things that peered at us out of the huts.
None about the fire attempted to salute me. Most of them disregarded me, ostentatiously. I looked round for the hyena-swine, but he was not there. Altogether, perhaps twenty of the beast folk squatted, staring into the fire or talking to one another.
“He is dead, he is dead! the master is dead!” said the voice of the ape-man to the right of me. “The house of pain—there is no house of pain!”
“He is not dead,” said I, in a loud voice. “Even now he watches us!”
This startled them. Twenty pairs of eyes regarded me.
“The house of pain is gone,” said I. “It will come again. The master you cannot see; yet even now he listens among you.”
“True, true!” said the dog-man.
They were staggered at my assurance. An animal may be ferocious and cunning enough, but it takes a real man to tell a lie.
“The man with the bandaged arm speaks a strange thing,” said one of the beast folk.