is come, with some new dance out of Asia or some new song.[Footnote: He
doesn't, but why shouldn't he?] Rodriguez sat and waited. The Professor
explained that to leave this Earth alive, or even dead, was prohibited
to our bodies, unless to a very few, whose names were hidden. Yet the
spirits of men could by incantation be liberated, and being liberated,
could be directed on journeys by such minds as had that power passed
down to them from of old. Such journeys, he said, were by no means
confined by the hills of Earth. "The Saints," exclaimed Morano, "guard
us utterly!" But Rodriguez smiled a little. His faith was given to the
Saints of Heaven. He wondered at their wonders, he admired their
miracles, he had little faith to spare for other marvels; in fact he
did not believe the Slave of Orion.

"Do you desire such a journey?" said the Professor.

"It will delight me," answered Rodriguez, "to see this example of your
art."

"And you?" he said to Morano.

The question seemed to alarm the placid Morano, but "I follow my
master," he said.

At once the Professor stretched out his ebony wand, calling the green
flame higher. Then he put out his hands over the flame, without the
wand, moving them slowly with constantly tremulous fingers. And all at
once they heard him begin to speak. His deep voice flowed musically
while he scarcely seemed to be speaking but seemed only to be concerned
with moving his hands. It came soft, as though blown faint from
fabulous valleys, illimitably far from the land of Spain. It seemed
full not so much of magic as mere sleep, either sleep in an unknown
country of alien men, or sleep in a land dreamed sleeping a long while
since. As the travellers heard it they thought of things far away, of
mythical journeys and their own earliest years.

They did not know what he said or what language he used. At first
Rodriguez thought Moorish, then he deemed it some secret language come
down from magicians of old, while Morano merely wondered; and then they
were lulled by the rhythm of those strange words, and so enquired no
more. Rodriguez pictured some sad wandering angel, upon some
mountain-peak of African lands, resting a moment and talking to the
solitudes, telling the lonely valley the mysteries of his home. While
lulled though Morano was he gave up his alertness uneasily. All the
while the green flame flooded upwards: all the while the tremulous
fingers made curious shadows. The shadow seemed to r