And like some august master of forbidden ceremonies, looking twice his natural size as the shadows played tricks with his arms and shoulders, merging his outline into walls and ceiling, Skale stood and looked about him.

Spaces stretched away on all sides as in the crypt of a cathedral, most beautifully and harmoniously draped with the separate colors of the four rooms, red, yellow, violet and green; immense gongs, connected apparently with some intricate network of shining wires, hung suspended in midair beneath the arches; rising from the floor were gigantic tuning forks, erect and silent, immediately behind which gaped artificial air-cavities placed to increase the intensity of the respective notes when caught; and in the dim background the clergyman pointed out an elaborate apparatus for quickly altering the temperature of the air, and another for the rapid production of carbonic acid gas, since by means of a lens of carbonic acid gas sound can be refracted like light, and by changing the temperature of the air that conveys it, sound can be bent, also like a ray of light, in any desired direction.  The whole cellar seemed in some way to sum up and synthesize the distinctive characteristics of the four rooms.  Over it all, sheeting ceiling and walls, lay the living and receptive wax.  Singularly suggestive, too, was the appearance of those huge metal discs, like lifeless, dark faces waiting the signal to open their bronze lips and cry aloud, ready for the advent of the Sound that should give them birth and force them to proclaim their mighty secret.  Spinrobin stared, silent and fascinated, almost expecting them to begin there and then their dreadful and appalling music.

Yet the place was undeniably empty; no ghost of a sound stirred the gorgeous draperies; nothing but a faint metallic whispering seemed to breathe out from the big discs and forks and wires as Skale’s voice, modulated and hushed though it was, vibrated gently against them.  Nothing moved, nothing uttered, nothing lived—­as yet.

“Destitute of all presence, you see it now,” whispered the clergyman, shading the candle with one huge hand; “though before long, when we transfer our great captured syllable down here, you shall know it alive and singing with a thousand thunders.  The Letters shall not escape me.  The gongs and colors correspond exactly.  They will retain both the sounds and the outlines ... and the wax is sensitive as the heart of a child.”  And his big face shone quite dreadfully as the whole pomp and splendor of his dream come true set fire to his thoughts.

But Spinrobin was glad when at length they turned and moved slowly again up the stone steps and emerged into the pale December daylight.  That dark cellar, wired, draped, waxed and be-gonged, awaiting its mighty occupant, filled his mind with too vast a sensation of wonder and anticipation for peace.

“And for the syllables to follow,” Skale resumed when they were once more in the library, “we shall want spaces larger still.  There are great holes in these hills”—­stretching out an arm to indicate the mountains above the house—­“and down yonder in the heart of those cliffs by the sounding sea there are caverns.  They are far, but the distance is of no consequence.  They will serve us well.  I know them.  I have marked them.  They are ready.”