bark of trees, that is the law,” he said. “Much some of them care for it!” It was after this, I think, that we met the satyr and the ape-man. The satyr was a gleam of classical memory on the part of Moreau—his face ovine in expression, like the coarser Hebrew type; his voice a harsh bleat, his nether extremities Satanic. He was gnawing the husk of a pod-like fruit as he passed us. Both of them saluted Montgomery.
“Hail,” said they, “to the other with the whip!”
“There’s a third with a whip now,” said Montgomery. “So you’d better mind!”
“Was he not made?” said the ape-man. “He said—he said he was made.”
The satyr-man looked curiously at me. “The third with the whip, he that walks weeping into the sea, has a thin white face.”
“He has a thin long whip,” said Montgomery.
“Yesterday he bled and wept,” said the satyr. “You never bleed nor weep. The master does not bleed or weep.”
“Ollendorffian beggar!” said Montgomery, “you’ll bleed and weep if you don’t look out!”
“He has five fingers, he is a five-man like me,” said the ape-man.
“Come along, Prendick,” said Montgomery, taking my arm; and I went on with him.
The satyr and the ape-man stood watching us and making other remarks to each other.
“He says nothing,” said the satyr. “Men have voices.”
“Yesterday he asked me of things to eat,” said the ape-man. “He did not know.”