He bent down, with livid face.
"Signor, it is the booming of the everlasting fire, and thou hast heard the voices of the damned."
"No, my friend, no. But it is a marvellous transmission of the uproar of hidden forces."
He leapt to the shallow pit.
"Listen and believe!" he cried; and funnelling his hands about his lips, he stooped over the central hole.
"Marco! Marco!" he screeched, in a piercing voice.
Something answered back. What was it? A malformed and twisted echo? A whistle of imprisoned steam tricked into some horrible caricature of a human voice?
"Paolo!" it seemed to wail, weak and faint with agony. "L'arqua, l'arqua, Paolo!"
The old man sprang to his feet and, looking down upon me in a sort of terrible triumph, unslung a water-flask from his belt, and, pulling out the cork, poured the cold liquid down into the puckered orifice. Then I felt his clutch on my arm again.
"He drinks!" he cried. "Listen and thou wilt understand."