The gloom of the forest settled down upon his spirits.  He felt despondent, tired, and savage.  He had not heard the drum beats for some while, and was half inclined to discontinue the pursuit.

Passing around a great, columnar tree trunk, he almost stumbled against a man who was standing on the farther side.  He was leaning against the trunk with one hand, in an attitude of repose.  His other hand was resting on a staff.  Maskull stopped short and started at him.

He was nearly naked, and of gigantic build.  He over-topped Maskull by a head.  His face and body were faintly phosphorescent.  His eyes—­ three in number—­were pale green and luminous, shining like lamps.  His skin was hairless, but the hair of his head was piled up in thick, black coils, and fastened like a woman’s.  His features were absolutely tranquil, but a terrible, quiet energy seemed to lie just underneath the surface.

Maskull addressed him.  “Did the drumming come from you?”

The man shook his head.

“What is your name?”

He replied in a strange, strained, twisted voice.  Maskull gathered that the name he gave was “Dreamsinter.”

“What is that drumming?”

“Surtur,” said Dreamsinter.

“Is it advisable for me to follow it?”

“Why?”

“Perhaps he intends me to.  He brought me here from Earth.”

Dreamsinter caught hold of him, bent down, and peered into his face.  “Not you, but Nightspore.”

This was the first time that Maskull had heard Nightspore’s name since his arrival on the planet.  He was so astonished that he could frame no more questions.

“Eat this,” said Dreamsinter.  “Then we will chase the sound together.”  He picked something up from the ground and handed it to Maskull.  He could not see distinctly, but it felt like a hard, round nut, of the size of a fist.

“I can’t crack it.”

Dreamsinter took it between his hands, and broke it into pieces.  Maskull then ate some of the pulpy interior, which was intensely disagreeable.

“What am I doing in Tormance, then?” he asked.

“You came to steal Muspel-fire, to give a deeper life to men—­never doubting if your soul could endure that burning.”

Maskull could hardly decipher the strangled words.

“Muspel....  That’s the name I’ve been trying to remember ever since I awoke.”

Dreamsinter suddenly turned his head sideways, and appeared to listen for something.  He motioned with his hand to Maskull to keep quiet.

“Is it the drumming?”

“Hush!  They come.”

He was looking toward the upper forest.  The now familiar drum rhythm was heard—­this time accompanied by the tramp of marching feet.