"On the contrary," replied Kalkmann instantly, rising from his chair and
ignoring the hand the Englishman had stretched out to him, "it is we who
have to thank you; and we do so most gratefully and sincerely." And at the same moment at least half a dozen of the Brothers took up
their position between himself and the door. "You are very good to say so," Harris replied as firmly as he could
manage, noticing this movement out of the corner of his eye, "but really
I had no conception that--my little chance visit could have afforded you
so much pleasure." He moved another step nearer the door, but Bruder
Schliemann came across the room quickly and stood in front of him. His
attitude was uncompromising. A dark and terrible expression had come
into his face. "But it was _not_ by chance that you came, Bruder Harris," he said so
that all the room could hear; "surely we have not misunderstood your
presence here?" He raised his black eyebrows. "No, no," the Englishman hastened to reply, "I was--I am delighted to be
here. I told you what pleasure it gave me to find myself among you. Do
not misunderstand me, I beg." His voice faltered a little, and he had
difficulty in finding the words. More and more, too, he had difficulty
in understanding _their_ words. "Of course," interposed Bruder Kalkmann in his iron bass, "_we_ have not
misunderstood. You have come back in the spirit of true and unselfish
devotion. You offer yourself freely, and we all appreciate it. It is
your willingness and nobility that have so completely won our veneration
and respect." A faint murmur of applause ran round the room. "What we
all delight in--what our great Master will especially delight in--is the
value of your spontaneous and voluntary--"

He used a word Harris did not understand. He said "_Opfer_." The
bewildered Englishman searched his brain for the translation, and
searched in vain. For the life of him he could not remember what it
meant. But the word, for all his inability to translate it, touched his
soul with ice. It was worse, far worse, than anything he had imagined. He felt like a lost, helpless creature, and all power to fight sank out
of him from that moment. "It is magnificent to be such a willing--" added Schliemann, sidling
up to him with a dreadful leer on his face. He made use of the same
word--"_Opfer_." "God! What could it all mean?" "Offer himself!" "True spirit of
devotion!" "Willing," "unselfish," "magnificent!" _Opfer, Opfer, Opfer!_
What in the name of heaven did it mean, that strange, mysterious word
that struck such terror into his heart? He made a valiant effort to keep his presence of mind and hold his
nerves steady. Turning, he saw that Kalkmann's face was a dead white. Kalkmann! He understood that well enough. _Kalkmann_ meant "Man of
Chalk": he knew that. But what did "_Opfer_" mean? That was the real key
to the situation. Words poured through his disordered mind in an endless
stream--unusual, rare words he had perhaps heard but once in his
life--while "_Opfer_," a word in common use, entirely escaped him. What
an extraordinary mockery it all was! Then Kalkmann, pale as death, but his face hard as iron, spoke a few low
words that he did not catch, and the Brothers standing by the walls at
once turned the lamps down so that the room became dim. In the half
light he could only just discern their faces and movements. "It is time," he heard Kalkmann's remorseless voice continue just behind
him. "The hour of midnight is at hand. Let us prepare. He comes! He
comes; Bruder Asmodelius comes!" His voice rose to a chant. And the sound of that name, for some extraordinary reason, was
terrible--utterly terrible; so that Harris shook from head to foot as he
heard it. Its utterance filled the air like soft thunder, and a hush
came over the whole room. Forces rose all about him, transforming the
normal into the horrible, and the spirit of craven fear ran through all
his being, bringing him to the verge of collapse. _Asmodelius! Asmodelius!_ The name was appalling. For he understood at
last to whom it referred and the meaning that lay between its great
syllables. At the same instant, too, he suddenly understood the meaning
of that unremembered word. The import of the word "_Opfer_" flashed upon
his soul like a message of death. He thought of making a wild effort to reach the door, but the weakness
of his trembling knees, and the row of black figures that stood between,
dissuaded him at once. He would have screamed for help, but remembering
the emptiness of the vast building, and the loneliness of the situation,
he understood that no help could come that way, and he kept his lips
closed. He stood still and did nothing. But he knew now what was coming. Two of the Brothers approached and took him gently by the arm. "Bruder Asmodelius accepts you," they whispered; "are you ready?" Then he found his tongue and tried to speak. "But what have I to do with
this Bruder Asm--Asmo--?" he stammered, a desperate rush of words
crowding vainly behind the halting tongue. The name refused to pass his lips. He could not pronounce it as they
did. He could not pronounce it at all. His sense of helplessness then
entered the acute stage, for this inability to speak the name produced
a fresh sense of quite horrible confusion in his mind, and he became
extraordinarily agitated. "I came here for a friendly visit," he tried to say with a great effort,
but, to his intense dismay, he heard his voice saying something quite
different, and actually making use of that very word they had all used:
"I came here as a willing _Opfer_," he heard his own voice say, "and _I
am quite ready_." He was lost beyond all recall now! Not alone his mind, but the very
muscles of his body had passed out of control. He felt that he was
hovering on the confines of a phantom or demon-world,--a world in which
the name they had spoken constituted the Master-name, the word of
ultimate power. What followed he heard and saw as in a nightmare. "In the half light that veils all truth, let us prepare to worship and
adore," chanted Schliemann, who had preceded him to the end of the room. "In the mists that protect our faces before the Black Throne, let us
make ready the willing victim," echoed Kalkmann in his great bass. They raised their faces, listening expectantly, as a roaring sound, like
the passing of mighty projectiles, filled the air, far, far away, very
wonderful, very forbidding. The walls of the room trembled. "He comes! He comes! He comes!" chanted the Brothers in chorus. The sound of roaring died away, and an atmosphere of still and utter
cold established itself over all. Then Kalkmann, dark and unutterably
stern, turned in the dim light and faced the rest. "Asmodelius, our _Hauptbruder_, is about us," he cried in a voice that
even while it shook was yet a voice of iron; "Asmodelius is about us. Make ready." There followed a pause in which no one stirred or spoke. A tall Brother
approached the Englishman; but Kalkmann held up his hand.