By order of the Holy Inquisition he was arrested,
    May 5, 1693, on a charge of practising sorcery, and burned alive
    at the Auto da Fé, in the Grand Market Square, Madrid; having in
    the interim been subjected to such tortures as only the subtle
    brains of the hellish inquisitors could devise. On receipt of a
    message from him, delivered in his supernatural body, we attended
    his execution, and can readily testify that he suffered no pain,
    although the torments endured by those around him were pitiable to
    behold. "(Signed) GEORGE RICHARD POOL, Physician; and ROBERT JAMES FOX,
    Merchant. "Citizens of Boston, Massachusetts; August 1, 1693.'" "Rot!" Hamar said savagely; "don't waste time reading such bunkum." "It may be bunkum, but if it takes away his mind from his stomach let
him go on," Curtis interposed. "It's very obvious you haven't arrived
at our pitch of starvation yet, Leon, or you would welcome anything
that would make you forget it even for a moment. Let's hear some more,
Matt! Go on, tell us something. How to make coyottes out of paraffin
paint, or convert a Sunday pair of pants into a glistening harem
skirt! Anything that won't remind us of food." Thus encouraged Kelson slowly turned over the pages of the book. "I
see it was printed and published for--I presume that means by--A.
Bettesworth and J. Batley in Pater-noster-Row, London, England, in
1690. Basle, London, Boston, Madrid! The author seems to have had
wandering on the brain. By the bye, Leon, with your features you could
easily work off a fake as 'the Wandering Jew.' There's money in
it--people will swallow anything in that line now." "I don't see how it would profit you anyhow," Hamar snarled. "Leave my
features alone and go on with your reading." Kelson chuckled--here was one way at least in which he could
occasionally get even with Hamar. Hamar's features were Yiddish, and
the Yids were none too popular in California. "Oh, all right!" he said; "if the subject is so painful I'll try and
avoid it in future; but it's odd how some things--for instance, murder
and noses--will out. Let me see, what have we here? 'Discovery of
ancient books, manuscripts, etc., relating to Atlantis.' Apparently,
Thomas Maitland, when shipwrecked on an island, called Inisturk, off
Mayo, in Ireland, found a wooden chest of rare workmanship--he had
seen, he says, similar ones in Egypt and Yucatan--containing some very
ancient books--curiously bound, and some vellum manuscripts, which,
after an infinite amount of labour, he managed to translate. The
books, he says, were standard histories, biographies, and scientific
works on occultism--all published in Banchicheisi, the capital of
Atlantis--and the manuscripts, he affirms, had been transcribed by one
Coulmenes, who believed himself to be the only survivor of a
tremendous submarine earthquake that had destroyed the whole of
Atlantis. The manuscripts included a diary of the events leading up to
the catastrophe--even to the meals! How about this?--'Sunrise on the
day of Thottirnanoge in the month of Finn-ra. Breakfasted on cornsop,
fish (Semona, corresponding to salmon), fruit, and much sweet milk.'" "For God's sake, don't!" Curtis groaned. "Skip over that part. The
very mention of grub makes the gnawing pain in my stomach ten times
worse." "You're different to me then!" Hamar grinned; "I love to think of it. My word, what wouldn't I give to be in Sadler's now. Roast beef--done
to a turn, eh! As only Sadler knows how! Potatoes nice and brown and
crisp! Horseradish! Greens! Boiled celery! Pudding under the meat! Beer!--What, going?" Curtis had risen from the table with his fingers crammed in his ears. "There's a fat splice of the devil in you to-night, Leon!" he panted. "I've had enough of it. I'm off. Come on, Matt. If you want us, you
know where to find us--only if we don't get something to eat
soon--you'll find us dead." CHAPTER II

THE BLACK ART OF ATLANTIS


For some time after Kelson and Curtis had left him, Hamar lolled back
in his seat, lost in thought. Thought, as he told himself repeatedly,
should be the poor man's chief recreation--it costs nothing: and if
one wants a little variety, and the walls of one's rooms are tolerably
thick, one can think aloud. Hamar often did, and derived much
enjoyment from it. "I'm convinced of one thing," he suddenly broke out; "I'd rather be
hungry than cold. One can, in a measure, cheat one's stomach by
chewing leather or sucking pebbles, but I'll be hanged if one can kid
one's liver. It's cold that does me! A touch of cold on the liver! I
could jog along comfortably on few dollars for food--but it's a fire,
a fire I want! The temperature of this room is infernally low after
sunset: and half a dozen coats and three pairs of pants don't make
up for half a grateful of fuel. Hunger only makes me think of
suicide--but cold--cold and a chilled liver--makes me think of crime. Yes, it's cold! Cold that would make me a criminal. I would
steal--burgle--housebreak--cut the sweetest lady's throat in
Christendom--for a fire! "There! that little outbreak has relieved me. Now let me have a look
at the book." He dragged the volume towards him, and despite the feeling of
antagonism with which it had inspired him, and despite the cynical
attitude he had, up to the present, adopted towards the supernatural,
he speedily became engrossed. On a few leaves, somewhat clumsily
inserted between the cover and first page of the book, Hamar read an
account, presumably in the author's own penmanship, of how he, Thomas
Maitland, after being shipwrecked, had remained on Inisturk Island for
a fortnight before being rescued, and had spent the greater portion of
that time in examining the books, etc., in the chest he had found--his
only food--shell-fish and a keg of mildewy ship's biscuits. He was taken, so the account ran, by his rescuers, on the barque
_Hannah_, to London, where he lived for five years. His lodgings were
in Cheapside, and it was there that he compiled his work on Atlantis,
having obtained his subject matter from the Atlantean books he had
managed to bring with him, and which, after an enormous amount of
perseverance and labour, he had translated into English. Though these
books were subsequently destroyed in a big fire that demolished the
entire street, luckily for him, he had sent his MS. to the publishers,
Messrs. Bettesworth and Batley, a week or so before the conflagration
broke out; so that he was, at any rate, spared the loss of his own
arduous and invaluable work. The publishers did not accept the MS. at once. At that time there were
very severe laws in operation against anything savouring of witchcraft
and magic, and as the manuscript dealt at length with these subjects,
and in a manner that left no doubt whatever that he, Thomas Maitland,
had practised sorcery extensively, Messrs. Bettesworth and Batley were
forced to consider whether it would be injurious to them to publish
it.