once, according to the book, it would vanish--and he might never be
able to get in touch with it again. Thus egged on, he made a great
effort to regain his courage, and at length succeeded in forcing
himself to speak. Though his voice was weak and shaking he managed to
pronounce the prescribed mode of address, viz.:--"Bara phonen etek
mo," which being interpreted is, "Spirit from the Unknown, give ear to
me." He then explained their earnest desire to pay homage to the
Supernatural, and to be initiated into the mysteries of the Black Art.
When Hamar had concluded his address, the anticipations of the three
as to how it would be answered, or whether it would be answered at
all--were such that they were forced to hold their breath almost to
the point of suffocation. If the Thing _could_ speak what would its
voice be like? The seconds passed, and they were beginning to prepare
themselves for disappointment, when suddenly across the intervening
space separating them from the Unknown, the reply came--came in soft,
silky, lisping tones--human and yet not human, novel and yet in some
way--a way that defied analysis--familiar. Strange to say, they all
three felt that this familiarity belonged to a far back period of
their existence, no less than to a more modern one--to a period, in
fact, to which they could affix no date. And, although a perfect unity
of expression suggested that the utterance of the Thing was the
utterance of one being only, a certain variation in its tones, a
rising and falling from syllable to syllable, led them to infer that
the voice was not the voice of one but of many.

"You are anxious to acquire knowledge of the Secrets associated with
the Great Atlantean Magic?" the voice lisped.

"We are!" Hamar stammered, "and we are willing to give our souls in
exchange for them."