Then all was voiceless save the storm.
“The dead speak!” cried the pale Rondah, clasping her hands.
Isabella had been brave in all the danger. Now she rose and, with the girl as her companion, stood close to the door.
That mockery of mystery, a voice from the dead, was more terrible than anything which we were accustomed to account for by natural laws.
The rocks on which the hut stood seemed to shake and to reverberate.
“The people say the hermit spent his life in tunnelling the rocks and in watching the stars,” said Father Renaudin. “It seems as if the tunnels, if such there be, had made musical pipes of themselves to-night.”
Suddenly Regan crossed the room to where the two girls stood. Something was in his face which was terrible.
I hastily drew Isabella away from him. The other one, Rondah, looking at him, fell back from the door and cried:
“This is the day! Let us go, Regan, let us go!”
Before I could comprehend, I saw Father Renaudin move toward Regan, who, like a flash, opened the door and cast into the terrible, lurid night the girl Rondah, after which he bolted the door and steadied himself as if for a death-struggle with Father Renaudin.