X X X
"A charm," the preacher told Lanark as he labored with the pen. "These mystic words and the crosses will defend you in your slumber, from all wicked spirits. So says Albertus Magnus, and Hohman as well."
"What do they mean?"
"I do not know that." Jager blew hotly upon Lanark's palm to dry the ink. "Will you now write the same thing for me, in my right hand?"
"If you wish." Lanark, in turn, dipped in the inkpot and began to copy the diagram. "Opera is a word I know," he observed, "and tenet is another. Sator may be some form of the old pagan word, satyr—a kind of horned human monster——"
He finished the work in silence. Then he lighted another cigar. His hand was as steady as a gun-rest this time, and the match did not even flicker in his fingertips. He felt somehow stronger, better, more confident.
"You'll give me a place to sleep for the night?" he suggested.
"Yes. I have only pallets, but you and I have slept on harder couches before this."
Within half an hour both men were sound asleep.