"There is a place," the boy would declaim loweringly, and with fitting
gesture, with hypnotic eye fastened on the cowering Bernal, "where the
only music is the symphony of damned souls. Where howling, groaning,
moaning, and gnashing of teeth make up the horrible concert. There is a
place where demons fly swift as air, with whips of knotted burning wire,
torturing poor souls; where tongues on fire with agony burn the roofs of
mouths that shriek in vain for drops of water--that water all denied. When
thou diest, O Sinner--"

But at this point the smaller boy usually became restless and would have
to go to the kitchen for a drink of water. Always he became thirsty here.
And he would linger over his drink till Clytie called him back to admire
his brother in the closing periods.

--"but at the resurrection thy soul will be united to thy body and then
thou wilt have twin hells; body and soul will be tormented together, each
brimful of agony, the soul sweating in its utmost pores drops of blood,
thy body from head to foot suffused with pain, thy bones cracking in the
fire, thy pulse rattling at an enormous rate in agony, every nerve a
string on which the devil shall play his diabolical tune of hell's
unutterable torment."

Here the little boy always listened at his wrist to know if his pulse
rattled yet, and felt glad indeed that he was a Presbyterian, instead of
being in that dreadful place with Jews and Papists and Milo Barrus, who
spelled God with a little g.

As to his own performance, Clytie found that he memorised prose with great
difficulty. A week did she labour to teach him one brief passage from a
lecture of Francis Murphy, depicting the fate of the drunkard. She bribed