"Then what is it? It's moving."
"Oh, it's moving. But it hasn't any eyes."
There was a momentary silence.
"As for sending a bullet into it," he added, "don't do anything so foolish."
He arose, stepped over and awoke Ondonarkus. The monster was still hovering over the spot. The Droman bestowed upon that ghost but a cursory, careless look, then yawned sleepily.
"Yam-yump!" said Ondonarkus, stretching himself.
Milton Rhodes laid a hand upon the other's shoulder and pointed an interrogative finger up in the direction of the phantom. The Droman gave a careless, airy toss of the hand.
"Drome," said he, then lay down again.
It was obvious from this monosyllabic answer, to say nothing of the manner of Ondonarkus, that there was absolutely nothing to apprehend from this mysterious apparition hovering above us. Certainly, though, there had not been any remarkable clarification. Indeed, in a way, Rhodes and I were more puzzled than ever. Drome, Drome. What could be the meaning of that word? Drome.
"It seems, Bill," said Rhodes, "that we are on our way to a very strange place. As for that ghost up there, it must be a fragment, as it were, of the light of this subterranean land."