Mr. Skale paused and drew deep breaths.  This approach to his great experiment, even in speech, seemed to exhaust him so that he was obliged to call upon reserves of force that lay beneath.  His whole manner betrayed the gravity, the reverence, the mingled respect and excitement of—­death.

And the simple truth is that at the moment Spinrobin could not find in himself sufficient courage to ask what this fearful and prodigious name might be.  Even to put ordinary questions about the four rooms was a little beyond him, for his heart beat like a hammer against his ribs, and he heard its ominous drum sounding through both his temples.

“And in each of the rooms in your corridor, ready to leap forth when called, lie the sounds or voices I have captured and imprisoned, these separate chambers being sheeted and prepared—­huge wax receptacles, in fact, akin to the cylinders of the phonograph.  Together with the form or pattern belonging to them, and the color, there they lie at present in silence and invisibility, just as the universe lay in silence and invisibility before the word of God called it into objective being.  But—­know them and they are mine.”

“All these weeks—­so close to me,” whispered Spinrobin, too low for Skale to notice.

Then the clergyman leaned over towards him.  “These captured sounds are as yet by no means complete,” he said through his beard, as though afraid to admit it; “for all I have of them really is their initial letters, of their forms the merest faint outlines, and of their colors but a first suggestion.  And we must be careful, we must be absolutely wise.  To utter them correctly will mean to transfer to us the qualities of Gods, whereas to utter falsely may mean to release upon the surface of the world forces that—­” He shrugged his great shoulders and an ashen pallor spread downwards over the face to the very lips.  The sentence remained unfinished; and its very incompleteness left Spinrobin with the most grievous agony of apprehension he had yet experienced.

“So that, if you are ready, our next step shall be to show you the room in which your own particular sound lies,” added Mr. Skale after a long pause; “the sound in the chord it will be your privilege to utter when the time comes.  For each of us will utter his or her particular letter, the four together making up the first syllable in the name I seek.”

Mr. Skale looked steadily down into the wide blue eyes of his companion, and for some minutes neither of them spoke.

“The letter I am to utter,” repeated the secretary at length; “the letter in some great name?”

Mr. Skale smiled upon him with the mighty triumph of the Promethean idea in his eyes.

“The room,” he muttered deeply and softly, “in which it lies waiting for you to claim it at the appointed time ... the room where you shall learn its color, become attuned to its great vibratory activity, see its form, and know its power in your own person.”