“The vibrations our ears can take are very small, I know,” interpolated Spinrobin, cold at heart, while Miriam, hiding behind chairs and tables that offered handy protection, watched with mingled anxiety and confidence, knowing that in the last resort her adorable and “wonderful Spinny” would guide her aright.  Love filled her heart, ousting that other portentous Heaven!

III

And then Skale announced that the time was ready for rehearsals.

“Let us practice the chord,” he said, “so that when the moment comes suddenly upon us, in the twinkling of an eye, in the daytime or in the night, we shall be prepared, and each shall fly to his appointed place and utter his appointed note.”

The reasons for these definite arrangements he did not pretend to explain, for they belonged to a part of his discovery that he kept rigidly to himself; and why Spinrobin and Miriam were to call their notes from the corridor itself, while Skale boomed his great bass in the prepared cellar, Mrs. Mawle chanting her alto midway in the hall, acting as a connecting channel in some way, was apparently never made fully clear.  In Spinrobin’s imagination it was very like a practical illustration of the written chord, the notes rising from the bass clef to the high soprano—­the cellar to the attic, so to speak.  But, whatever the meaning behind it, Skale was exceedingly careful to teach to each of them his and her appointed place.

“When the Letters move of themselves, and make the first sign,” he repeated, “we shall know it beyond all doubt or question.  At any moment of the day or night it may come.  Each of you then hasten to your appointed place and wait for the sound of my bass in the cellar.  There will be no mistake about it; you will hear it rising through the building.  Then, each in turn, as it reaches you, lift your voices and call your notes.  The chord thus rising through the building will gather in the flying Letters:  it will unite them; it will summon them down to the fundamental master-tone I utter in the cellar.  The moment the Letter summoned by each particular voice reaches the cellar, that voice must cease its utterance.  Thus, one by one, the four mighty Letters will come to rest below.  The gongs will vibrate in sympathetic resonance; the colors will tremble and respond; the finely drawn wires will link the two, and the lens of gas will lead them to the wax, and the record of the august and terrible syllable will be completely chained.  At any desired moment afterwards I shall be able to reawaken it.  Its phonetic utterance, its correct pronunciation, captured thus in the two media of air and ether, sound and light, will be in my safe possession, ready for use.

“But”—­and he looked down upon his listeners with a dreadful and impressive gravity that yet only just concealed the bursting exultation the thought caused him to feel—­“remember that once you have uttered your note, you will have sucked out from the Letter a portion of its own terrific life and force, which will immediately pass into yourself.  You will instantly absorb this, for you will have called upon a mighty name—­the mightiest—­and your prayer will have been answered.”  He stooped and whispered as in an act of earnest prayer, “We shall be as Gods!”