As we journeyed, old Pellmelli gave us a good deal of information about the Lo-grollas, whom he did not seem to like. They were, he said, a savage and treacherous tribe, inhabiting for the most part the ruined abodes of some kingly race of old. The names of their chief dwellings, he told us, were still called, in some ancient and long-lost speech, 'The Academy,' and 'The Athenæum.' Leonora, whose knowledge of languages was extensive and peculiar, told Pellmelli that these names were derived from the old Greek. 'Ah,' said he, 'you have clearly drunk of the wisdom of the past, and thy hands have held the water of the world's knowledge. Know you Latin also?' 'Yes, O Pellmelli,' replied Leonora, and Pellmelli said he preferred modern tongues, though it would often be useful to him if he did in his dealings with the Lo-grollas. 'However, if our Greek is a little to seek, our Russian is O.K.,' he said proudly. He was very bitter against the Lo-grollas. The Lo-grollas' favourite weapon, he told us, was the club, and he even proposed to show us this instrument. Our litter presently stopped outside a stately palace. The street was dark, as always in this strange city, but old Pellmelli paused, sniffed, and, bending his ear to the ground, listened intently. 'I smell the incense,' he said, 'and hear the melodious Rolling of the Logs. But they shall know their master!' Thus speaking, he led us into a vast hall, where the Lo-grollas were sitting or standing, 'offering each other incense,' as Pellmelli remarked, from thin tubes of paper, which smoked at one end. 'Now listen,' said Pellmelli, and he cried aloud the name of a poet known to the Lo-grollas. Instantly we heard, from I know not what recess, a rolling fire of applause and admiration, which swept past us with stately and solemn music, like a hymn of praise. '_There_,' said Pellmelli, 'I told you so. This is the place of the Rolling of Logs, and yourselves have heard it.' Leonora said she did not mind how often she heard it, as she quite agreed with the sentiments. 'Not so!' said Pellmelli; and he cried aloud another name--the name of a poetaster--which was almost strange to us. Then followed through that vasty hall a sharp and rattling crash, as of the descent of innumerable slates. 'Great heavens!' whispered Leonora, 'remember the writing; _the place where they slate strangers_!' As _we_ were strangers, and wholly unknown to the Lo-grollas, we thought they might slate _us_, and, beating a hasty retreat, soon found ourselves with Pellmelli in the dark outer air. 'They are a desperate lot,' said he; 'they won't ever put anything in the Budget.' He was quivering with indignation; and Leonora, to soothe him, told him the story of our quest for the mummy, and asked him if he could help us.