“I agree,” he said. “Dark are the ways. It is the will of God...”
Dimly the booming of the thunder came echoing back to us from the hills. Above its roll sounded a barbaric chanting to which the drums of angry heaven formed a fitting accompaniment.
I heard Soar shooting the bolts again upon the going of our strange visitor.
Faint and more faint grew the chanting, until it merged into the remote muttering of the storm—and was lost. The quest of the sacred slipper was ended.