The mocking voice, this time with a note of menace in it, broke sharply in upon his reflections.
Quick as thought Mervyn answered in the same tongue, using the same words, “Wabozi, zea!” (“Greeting, dog!”)
“So,” continued his captor, “thou knowest the language of the underworld? ’Tis well. Thou wilt have need of it ere long, when I question thee concerning thy presence in my kingdom. Know you that I am Nordhu, High Priest of Ramouni, Ruler of the Under-world! Who are ye? Take heed that ye speak naught but the truth, for I know more than ye think.”
A faint hope flickered up in the scientist’s breast that, by telling his story in its fulness, the priest might be induced to set him free, that he might return to his friends.
So he began narrating the misadventures and accidents which landed him in so unfortunate a position.
But never an atom of interest did the priest show. His features were inscrutable as a mask.
“What is that to me?” he asked, as Mervyn concluded with a plea for his freedom; “what need was there for ye to seek out this secret place in your upper world, which ye call the ‘Pole’?”
“None,” was the scientist’s answer, “save that it was a mystery, and we were minded to solve it.”
“Granted there were need for that,” pursued the priest, “there were none for ye to set foot upon my land—the land of my people.”
The arrogance of the fellow was fast arousing Mervyn’s temper, yet he strove to keep it in check, unwilling to make an open enemy of the man he had—all unwittingly—offended.