For a moment I feared the words might be my own, brought back by the echo. Perhaps I had been crying out unknown to myself. I closed my lips firmly, and laid my ear against the wall again.
"Yes, truly, some one is speaking; those are words!"
Even a few feet from the wall I could hear distinctly. I succeeded in catching uncertain, strange, undistinguishable words. They came as if pronounced in low murmured whispers. The word 'forlorad' was several times repeated in a tone of sympathy and sorrow.
"Help!" I cried with all my might. "Help!"
I listened, I watched in the darkness for an answer, a cry, a mere breath of sound, but nothing came. Some minutes passed. A whole world of ideas had opened in my mind. I thought that my weakened voice could never penetrate to my companions.
"It is they," I repeated. "What other men can be thirty leagues under ground?"
I again began to listen. Passing my ear over the wall from one place to another, I found the point where the voices seemed to be best heard. The word 'forlorad' again returned; then the rolling of thunder which had roused me from my lethargy.
"No," I said, "no; it is not through such a mass that a voice can be heard. I am surrounded by granite walls, and the loudest explosion could never be heard here! This noise comes along the gallery. There must be here some remarkable exercise of acoustic laws!"
I listened again, and this time, yes this time, I did distinctly hear my name pronounced across the wide interval.
It was my uncle's own voice! He was talking to the guide. And 'forlorad' is a Danish word.