The Professor bowed.  He drew small curtains over the windows, matching his cloak.  Morano sought a glimpse through the right-hand window before the curtains covered it.  Rodriguez held him back.  Enough had been seen already, he thought, through that window for the peace of mind of the world:  but he said no word to Morano.  He held him by the arm, and the Professor covered the windows.  When the little mauve curtains were drawn it seemed to Rodriguez that the windows behind them disappeared and were there no more; but this he only guessed from uncertain indications.

Then the Professor drew forth his wand and went to his cupboard of wonder.  Thence he brought condiments, oils, and dews of amazement.  These he poured into a vessel that was in the midst of the room, a bowl of agate standing alone on a table.  He lit it and it all welled up in flame, a low broad flame of the colour of pale emerald.  Over this he waved his wand, which was of exceeding blackness.  Morano watched as children watch the dancer, who goes from village to village when spring is come, with some new dance out of Asia or some new song.[Footnote:  He doesn’t, but why shouldn’t he?] Rodriguez sat and waited.  The Professor explained that to leave this Earth alive, or even dead, was prohibited to our bodies, unless to a very few, whose names were hidden.  Yet the spirits of men could by incantation be liberated, and being liberated, could be directed on journeys by such minds as had that power passed down to them from of old.  Such journeys, he said, were by no means confined by the hills of Earth.  “The Saints,” exclaimed Morano, “guard us utterly!” But Rodriguez smiled a little.  His faith was given to the Saints of Heaven.  He wondered at their wonders, he admired their miracles, he had little faith to spare for other marvels; in fact he did not believe the Slave of Orion.

“Do you desire such a journey?” said the Professor.

“It will delight me,” answered Rodriguez, “to see this example of your art.”

“And you?” he said to Morano.

The question seemed to alarm the placid Morano, but “I follow my master,” he said.

At once the Professor stretched out his ebony wand, calling the green flame higher.  Then he put out his hands over the flame, without the wand, moving them slowly with constantly tremulous fingers.  And all at once they heard him begin to speak.  His deep voice flowed musically while he scarcely seemed to be speaking but seemed only to be concerned with moving his hands.  It came soft, as though blown faint from fabulous valleys, illimitably far from the land of Spain.  It seemed full not so much of magic as mere sleep, either sleep in an unknown country of alien men, or sleep in a land dreamed sleeping a long while since.  As the travellers heard it they thought of things far away, of mythical journeys and their own earliest years.