Passing around a great, columnar tree trunk, he almost stumbled against a man who was standing on the farther side. He was leaning against the trunk with one hand, in an attitude of repose. His other hand was resting on a staff. Maskull stopped short and stared at him. He was nearly naked, and of gigantic build. He over-topped Maskull by a head. His face and body were faintly phosphorescent. His eyes—three in number—were pale green and luminous, shining like lamps. His skin was hairless, but the hair of his head was piled up in thick, black coils, and fastened like a woman’s. His features were absolutely tranquil, but a terrible, quiet energy seemed to lie just underneath the surface. Maskull addressed him. “Did the drumming come from you?” The man shook his head. “What is your name?” He replied in a strange, strained, twisted voice. Maskull gathered that the name he gave was “Dreamsinter.” “What is that drumming?” “Surtur,” said Dreamsinter. “Is it advisable for me to follow it?” “Why?” “Perhaps he intends me to. He brought me here from Earth.” Dreamsinter caught hold of him, bent down, and peered into his face. “Not you, but Nightspore.” This was the first time that Maskull had heard Nightspore’s name since his arrival on the planet. He was so astonished that he could frame no more questions. “Eat this,” said Dreamsinter. “Then we will chase the sound together.” He picked something up from the ground and handed it to Maskull. He could not see distinctly, but it felt like a hard, round nut, of the size of a fist. “I can’t crack it.” Dreamsinter took it between his hands, and broke it into pieces. Maskull then ate some of the pulpy interior, which was intensely disagreeable. “What am I doing in Tormance, then?” he asked. “You came to steal Muspel-fire, to give a deeper life to men—never doubting if your soul could endure that burning.” Maskull could hardly decipher the strangled words. “Muspel.... That’s the name I’ve been trying to remember ever since I awoke.” Dreamsinter suddenly turned his head sideways, and appeared to listen for something. He motioned with his hand to Maskull to keep quiet. “Is it the drumming?” “Hush! They come.” He was looking toward the upper forest. The now familiar drum rhythm was heard—this time accompanied by the tramp of marching feet. Maskull saw, marching through the trees and heading toward them, three men in single file separated from one another by only a yard or so. They were travelling down hill at a swift pace, and looked neither to left nor right. They were naked. Their figures were shining against the black background of the forest with a pale, supernatural light—green and ghostly. When they were abreast of him, about twenty feet off, he perceived who they were. The first man was himself—Maskull. The second was Krag. The third man was Nightspore. Their faces were grim and set.