"Yes, he's there."

"A fog is coming. How quiet it is! There's something wrong in the
air--what do you think, Noni?"

"Tss!"

The first soft sounds of the organ resound. Some one is sitting
alone in the dark and is speaking to God in an incomprehensible
language about the most important things. And however faint the
sounds--suddenly the silence vanishes, the night trembles and stares
into the dark church with all its myriads of phantom eyes. An
agitated voice whispers:

"Listen! He always begins that way. He gets a hold of your soul at
once! Where does he get the power? He gets a hold of your heart!"

"I don't like it."

"Listen! Now he makes believe he is Haggart, Khorre! Little
Haggart in his mother's lap. Look, all hands are filled with golden
rays; little Haggart is playing with golden rays. Look!"

"I don't see it, Noni. Leave my hand alone, it hurts."

"Now he makes believe he is Haggart! Listen!"

The oppressive chords resound faintly. Haggart moans softly.

"What is it, Noni? Do you feel any pain?"