"_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 seemed covered with a dull grey
hair almost like a Skye-terrier. What was it? What were they all?
Imagine yourself surrounded by all the most horrible cripples
and maniacs it is possible to conceive, and you may understand
a little of my feelings with these grotesque caricatures of humanity
about me.

"He is a five-man, a five-man, a five-man--like me," said the Ape-man.

I held out my hands. The grey creature in the corner leant forward.

"Not to run on all-fours; that is the Law. Are we not Men?"