“What am I doing in Tormance, then?” he asked.
“You came to steal Muspel-fire, to give a deeper life to men—never doubting if your soul could endure that burning.”
Maskull could hardly decipher the strangled words.
“Muspel.... That’s the name I’ve been trying to remember ever since I awoke.”
Dreamsinter suddenly turned his head sideways, and appeared to listen for something. He motioned with his hand to Maskull to keep quiet.
“Is it the drumming?”
“Hush! They come.”
He was looking toward the upper forest. The now familiar drum rhythm was heard—this time accompanied by the tramp of marching feet.
Maskull saw, marching through the trees and heading toward them, three men in single file separated from one another by only a yard or so. They were travelling down hill at a swift pace, and looked neither to left nor right. They were naked. Their figures were shining against the black background of the forest with a pale, supernatural light—green and ghostly. When they were abreast of him, about twenty feet off, he perceived who they were. The first man was himself—Maskull. The second was Krag. The third man was Nightspore. Their faces were grim and set.
The source of the drumming was out of sight. The sound appeared to come from some point in front of them. Maskull and Dreamsinter put themselves in motion, to keep up with the swiftly moving marchers. At the same time a low, faint music began.