It never
occurred to him that the Brothers might all be mad, or that he himself
might have temporarily lost his senses and be suffering under some
terrible delusion. In fact, nothing occurred to him--he realised
nothing--except that he meant to escape--and the quicker the better. A
tremendous revulsion of feeling set in and overpowered him. Accordingly, without further protest for the moment, he ate his
pumpernickel and drank his coffee, talking meanwhile as naturally and
pleasantly as he could, and when a suitable interval had passed, he
rose to his feet and announced once more that he must now take his
leave. He spoke very quietly, but very decidedly. No one hearing him
could doubt that he meant what he said. He had got very close to the
door by this time. “I regret,” he said, using his best German, and speaking to a hushed
room, “that our pleasant evening must come to an end, but it is now
time for me to wish you all good-night.” And then, as no one said
anything, he added, though with a trifle less assurance, “And I thank
you all most sincerely for your hospitality.”

“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.