lness was so profound that he heard the soft sighs of the
candles, the forest of unnumbered candles; the room was windless. Again
the singular fancy overtook him that the key of B ruled the song of the
lights, and he stirred painfully because certain sounds irritated him,
recalling as a child his vague rage at the Kol Nidrei, which was sung in
the key of B at the synagogue.

He closed his eyes a moment and opened them with fright, for the drum
sounded near his head, though he could not turn to see it. Suddenly he
was encircled by ten monks and chaunting heard. Mendoza noticed the
admirable monotone, the absolute, pitch, and then, with a leap of his
heart, the key color B again; and the mode was major.

The hooded monks sang in Latin the Lord's Prayer. "Our Father," they
solemnly intoned--"Our Father who art in Heaven; hallowed be thy name.
Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us
this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive
those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but
deliver us from evil. Amen."

Baruch tried to sleep. The rich voices lulled him into temporary rest;
he seemed to have slept hours. But he knew this was impossible, for the
monks were singing the Lord's Prayer when he awoke. He grew exasperated;
why need they pray over him? Why did they not take him to his damp cell
to rot or to be eaten by vermin? This blaze of light was unendurable; it
penetrated his closed eyelids, painted burning visions on his brain, and
the music--the accursed music--continued. Again the Lord's Prayer was
solemnly intoned, and noticing the freshness of the voices he opened his
eyes, counted ten cowled monks around him; and the key they sang was B,
the mode major.

Another set, Baruch thought, as he remarked the stature of the singers,
and sought oblivion. All that night and all next day he chased sleep,
and the morning of the third day found him with half mad gaze, sleepless
and frantic. When from deadly exhaustion he would half faint into stupor
the hollow, sinister sound of the drum stunned his ears, while rich,
churchly voices of men would intone "Pater noster, qui es in coelis!"
and always in the agonizing key of B.

This tone became a monstrous serpent that plunged its fangs into
Baruch's brain and hissed one implacable tone, the tone B. The drum
roared the same tone; the voices twined about the crucified Jew and beat
back sleep, beat back death