“I know it because I’ve seen it,” went on the sea man, his mind and speech slightly more under control. “Seen the ceremonies that brought these whopping old Nature gods down into form—seen ’em carry off a worshipper into themselves—seen that worshipper, too, go off singing and happy to his death, proud and honoured to be chosen.”

“Have you really—by George!” the Major exclaimed. “You tell us a queer thing, Erricson”; and it was then for the fifth time that Sinbad cautiously opened the door, peeped in and silently withdrew after giving a swiftly comprehensive glance round the room.

The night outside was windless and serene, only the growing thunder of the tide near the full woke muffled echoes among the sand-dunes.

“Rites and ceremonies,” continued the other, his voice booming with a singular enthusiasm, but ignoring the interruption, “are simply means of losing one’s self by temporary ecstasy in the God of one’s choice—the God one has worshipped all one’s life—of being partially absorbed into his being. And sacrifice completes the process—”

“At death, you said?” asked Malcolm Reese, watching him keenly.

“Or voluntary,” was the reply that came flash-like. “The devotee becomes wedded to his Deity—goes bang into him, you see, by fire or water or air—as by a drop from a height—according to the nature of the particular God; at-one-ment, of course. A man’s death that! Fine, you know!”

The man’s inner soul was on fire now. He was talking at a fearful pace, his eyes alight, his voice turned somehow into a kind of sing-song that chimed well, singularly well, with the booming of waves outside, and from time to time he turned to the window to stare at the sea and the moon-blanched sands. And then a look of triumph would come into his face—that giant face framed by slow-moving wreaths of pipe smoke.

Sinbad entered for the sixth time without any obvious purpose, busied himself unnecessarily with the glasses and went out again, lingeringly. In the room he kept his eye hard upon his master. This time he contrived to push a chair and a heap of netting between him and the window. No one but Dr. Reese observed the manoeuvre. And he took the hint.

“The port-holes fit badly, Erricson,” he laughed, but with a touch of authority. “There’s a five-knot breeze coming through the cracks worse than an old wreck!” And he moved up to secure the fastening better.

“The room is confoundedly cold,” Major Reese put in; “has been for the last half-hour, too.” The soldier looked what he felt—cold—distressed—creepy. “But there’s no wind really, you know,” he added.

Captain Erricson turned his great bearded visage from one to the other before he answered; there was a gleam of sudden suspicion in his blue eyes. “The beggar’s got that back door open again. If he’s sent for anyone, as he did once before, I swear I’ll drown him in fresh water for his impudence—or perhaps—can it be already that he expects—?” He left the sentence incomplete and rang the bell, laughing with a boisterousness that was clearly feigned. “Sinbad, what’s this cold in the place? You’ve got the back door open. Not expecting anyone, are you—?”