“He drinks!” he cried.  “Listen and thou wilt understand.”

I rose with a ghost of a laugh, and once more addressed my ear to the opening.

From unthinkable depths came up a strange, gloating sound, as from a ravenous throat made vibrant with ecstasy.

“Paolo,” I cried, as I rose and stood before him—­and there was an admonitory note in my voice—­“a feather may decide the balance.  Beware meddling with hidden thunders, or thou mayst set rolling such another tombstone as that on which these corpse fires are yet flaming.”

And he only answered me, set and deathly,—­

“We of the mountains, Signor, know more things than we may tell of.”