When they reached the stone upon which Yacka stood, the black said:
‘Kneel, kneel. This is the White Spirit of the Enooma. This is Enooma, and this is her cave. She dwells here. She has lived here from the beginning, and Yacka is her son. Kneel before the White Spirit.’
To humour him they knelt. There was something solemn about the proceedings—something it was difficult to understand. As they knelt, Yacka wailed again, and the peculiar cry echoed through the white, vaulted chamber.
‘I knew you would come,’ said Yacka. ‘Enooma told me you would find your way. She whispered to me that you were of her race, and her people.’ The black’s voice had a sad tone in it. ‘She has found her white sons, and the poor black must know her no more; Yacka is no longer the only son of Enooma. He has brought you to her, and she claims you as her own. You are of her race and her people. Rise and look upon the face of Enooma, the White Spirit, and say did Yacka speak false when he brought you here.’
Edgar and Will rose to their feet, and, standing on a large slab which Yacka pointed out to them, they looked down upon the figure before them.
To Edgar it looked like the figure of a very beautiful woman carved in alabaster. She lay on her back, with her hands hidden beneath the folds of a fine piece of stone lacework. The lower part of the figure had a similar covering, so that the actual part of a woman visible to them was the face only. But the lace covering of the body was of such fine work that the figure could almost be seen underneath.
The face of Enooma wore a calm and peaceful expression, such as is invariably found upon the carved monuments of the dead, and bearing but little sign of the mind that worked within before death.
‘Can this be the image of a being that once lived here?’ said Edgar to Will.
Yacka stood some distance away, and could not hear them.
‘Impossible,’ said Will. ‘No white woman has ever been here.’