“’Tis well, oh Ramouni,” replied the priest, “it shall be done. Well, art satisfied?” he continued, turning to Mervyn.
“No,” cried the latter; “I am persuaded that the idol speaks but by a trick.”
An expression of fiendish rage swept over the face of the priest, and he raised his clenched fist threateningly above his victim. For an instant it seemed as though he would strike Mervyn to the earth, but he restrained his fury.
“Hound!” he hissed frenziedly, “dost dare to say Ramouni hath no voice?”
“I go further,” pursued Mervyn firmly—to him in a flash had come the revelation of Nordhu’s trickery—“I know the means by which ye make the idol speak, and will expose you to your people. Think you that you alone can give Ramouni voice? Listen!”
Once more a voice came from the image, but this time different indeed in tone; no weak, piping voice this, but strong and of full volume.
“Hark ye, Nordhu,” come the words—and at the sound of them the two wolfish worshippers raised themselves, staring in astonishment at the lips of the god—“do no harm to this white stranger, I command ye. It is my will that he should depart in peace. See to it, lest my anger be visited upon my people!”
It was Mervyn’s last card, his final effort in his struggle against death.
Himself a ventriloquist of no mean ability, the scientist had quickly perceived the method by which the crafty priest gave speech to Ramouni. A faint hope flickered up in his mind that, by means of his talent, he might compel Nordhu to release him.
Vain hope! One moment the priest stood as though turned to stone, the next his clenched fist shot out, and Mervyn dropped like a log.