“Be seated,” said Meyer, and the entranced Benita sat herself down upon the steps at the foot of the cross, placing the lamp on the rock pavement before her, and bowing her head till her hair fell upon her naked feet and hid them.  He held his hands above her for a while, then asked: 

“Do you sleep?”

“I sleep,” came the strange, slow answer.

“Is your spirit awake?”

“It is awake.”

“Command it to travel backwards through the ages to the beginning, and tell me what you see here.”

“I see a rugged cave and wild folk dwelling in it; an old man is dying yonder,” and she pointed to the right; “and a black woman with a babe at her breast tends him.  A man, it is her husband, enters the cave.  He holds a torch in one hand, and with the other drags a buck.”

“Cease,” said Meyer.  “How long is this ago?”

“Thirty-three thousand two hundred and one years,” came the answer, spoken without any hesitation.

“Pass on,” he said, “pass on thirty thousand years, and tell me what you see.”

For a long while there was silence.

“Why do you not speak?” he asked.

“Be patient; I am living through those thirty thousand years; many a life, many an age, but none may be missed.”

Again there was silence for a long while, till at length she spoke: 

“They are done, all of them, and now three thousand years ago I see this place changed and smoothly fashioned, peopled by a throng of worshippers clad in strange garments with clasps upon them.  Behind me stands the graven statue of a goddess with a calm and cruel face, in front of the altar burns a fire, and on the altar white-robed priests are sacrificing an infant which cries aloud.”

“Pass on, pass on,” Meyer said hurriedly, as though the horror of that scene had leapt to his eyes.  “Pass on two thousand seven hundred years and tell me what you see.”

Again there was a pause, while the spirit he had evoked in the body of Benita lived through those ages.  Then slowly she answered: 

“Nothing, the place is black and desolate, only the dead sleep beneath its floor.”

“Wait till the living come again,” he commanded; “then speak.”

“They are here,” she replied presently.  “Tonsured monks, one of whom fashions this crucifix, and their followers who bow before the Host upon the altar.  They come, they go—­of whom shall I tell you?”

“Tell me of the Portuguese; of those who were driven here to die.”

“I see them all,” she answered, after a pause.  “Two hundred and three of them.  They are ragged and wayworn and hungry.  Among them is a beautiful woman, a girl.  She draws near to me, she enters into me.  You must ask her,”—­this was spoken in a very faint voice—­“I am I no more.”

Mr. Clifford attempted to interrupt, but fiercely Meyer bade him to be silent.

“Speak,” he commanded, but the crouching figure shook her head.