"I can't crack it."
Dreamsinter took it between his hands, and broke it into pieces.
Maskull then ate some of the pulpy interior, which was intensely disagreeable.
"What am I doing in Tormance, then?" he asked.
"You came to steal Muspel-fire, to give a deeper life to men - never doubting if your soul could endure that burning."Maskull could hardly decipher the strangled words.
"Muspel.. .. That's the name I've been trying to remember ever since I awoke."Dreamsinter suddenly turned his head sideways, and appeared to listen for something. He motioned with his hand to Maskull to keep quiet.
"Is it the drumming?"
"Hush! They come."
He was looking toward the upper forest. The now familiar drum rhythm was heard - this time accompanied by the tramp of marching feet.
Maskull saw, marching through the trees and heading toward them, three men in single file separated from one another by only a yard or so. They were travelling down hill at a swift pace, and looked neither to left nor right. They were naked. Their figures were shining against the black background of the forest with a pale, supernatural light - green and ghostly. When they were abreast of him, about twenty feet off, he perceived who they were. The first man was himself - Maskull. The second was Krag. The third man was Nightspore. Their faces were grim and set.
The source of the drumming was out of sight. The sound appeared to come from some point in front of them. Maskull and Dreamsinter put themselves in motion, to keep up with the swiftly moving marchers.
At the same time a low, faint music began.
Its rhythm stepped with the drum beats, but, unlike the latter, it did not seem to proceed from any particular quarter of the forest.
It resembled the subjective music heard in dreams, which accompanies the dreamer everywhere, as a sort of natural atmosphere, rendering all his experiences emotional. it seemed to issue from an unearthly orchestra, and was strongly troubled, pathetic and tragic. Maskull marched, and listened; and as he listened, it grew louder and stormier. But the pulse of the drum interpenetrated all the other sounds, like the quiet beating of reality.