“ His is the house of pain. “ His is the hand that makes. “ His is the hand that wounds. “ His is the hand that heals.”
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.
“ His are the stars in the sky.”
At last that song ended. I saw the ape-man’s face shining with perspiration; and my eyes being now accustomed to the darkness, I saw more distinctly the figure in the corner from which the voice came. It was the size of a man, but it