I was back in the cellar with Esther and Lazaroff, and we were examining the cylinders. As I looked about me, I seemed to be in the cylinder still, but gradually it expanded, until it became a vast hall, dark, save for a little window near the ceiling, through whose half-opaque crystal a little light filtered in dimly.
Lazaroff seemed to have aged. He wore a white beard, and his touch was very gentle as he bathed my face with water. As I stared at him he became ... somebody whom I had once known ... Bishop Alfred!
“Now you are better,” said the old man, with his child-like smile.
I put my hand up to my aching head. There was a scarred groove along the top of the scalp, where the glow ray had plowed its passage. I began to remember now.
The howling of the dogs broke out afresh. The din was terrific, and the mournful tones of the poor animals’ cries made the place a pandemonium.
“Arnold!” whispered a soft voice at my side.
Elizabeth was kneeling there, and David stood behind her. Next to David stood the little woman who had been our neighbor in the Strangers’ House, and a multitude of men and women, and children, too, watched me through the gloom.
“Where am I? Who are all these?” I asked. Then, lighting upon a more momentous question, “How long have I been here?”
“Three days, Arnold,” whispered Elizabeth.
“Then in two days—two days—” I gasped.