During the service Alan’s eyes were riveted on some peculiar characters that were inscribed on the walls, at intervals, as far as eye could reach. It was a group of hieroglyphics repeated over and over again, and there was something oddly familiar about them—yet he was unable to guess exactly what it was. Then the people’s voice rose in song—he listened intently. Again and again were the words repeated like a chorus and almost unconsciously he committed the sounds to memory. Soon the service was ended and in triumph they were led back to Kaweeka’s house. She met them with renewed wiles and charm, but the boys were strong and she left them alone with rage in her heart. They ate the food that was placed before them in silence, a silence which Alan broke by saying abruptly, “Could you make out anything of the last hymn the people kept singing over and over again in the temple, Dez?” “What do you mean?” “Well, could you understand it?” Desmond looked surprised. “Of course not,” he laughed. “Could you?” Alan did not answer the question, but asked another. “Well, they sung it over a good many times—didn’t you memorize the sounds?” Desmond thought a minute, “I think I did,” he replied. “It sounded something like: “_Har-Ju-Jar! Har-Ju-Jar! Kar-Tharn._” “_Har-Ju-Jar! Har-Ju-Jar! Kar-Tharn._” Alan pulled a scrap of paper triumphantly out of his pocket and showed it to his cousin. He had written down the exact phonetic spelling of the words Desmond had said. “All the same, I don’t see what you are driving at,” he demurred, “you look confoundedly pleased over something.” “I’ve been working out a theory, and I don’t think I am far wrong in the decision I have arrived at. Now look at that,” and he handed him another piece of paper on which were written the following signs: [Illustration] Desmond looked at it quizzically for a moment, and then said, “Why, you’ve copied down the signs that are painted all around the walls of the temple—in the great Fire Hall.” “Right. Now can you translate it?” Desmond laughed. “Of course not. Can you?” “I think so,” said Alan confidently. “What?” almost shouted Desmond in amazement. “Now,” went on Alan. “You got your first in Theology at Cambridge—translate this”—and he passed Desmond a third slip of paper with other signs on it: ‏אבירם‏‎. דתן‏‎. Desmond looked at it carefully. “I’ve almost forgotten,” he commenced. Then—“why it’s Hebrew—Hebrew for Abiram and Dathan!” “Now I want you to think carefully, Dez,” and Alan placed the two slips of paper on which were written the characters, before him. “Now would you not swear that _this_,” pointing to the characters copied from the temple, “is a corruption of _that_?”—pointing to the Hebrew. “Well it certainly looks as if it might easily be so,” admitted Desmond.