Gradually he realised that he had sustained some sort of attack, and that he had put up no resistance at all; and with that realisation a quite new kind of dread entered his mind. Though he was theoretically a materialist, he had all his life believed quite inconsistently, and even carelessly, in the freedom of his own will. He had seldom made a moral resolution: and when he had resolved some hours ago to trust the Belbury crew no further, he had taken it for granted that he would be able to do what he resolved. He knew, to be sure, that he might “change his mind”: but till he did so, of course he would carry out his plan. It had never occurred to him that his mind could thus be changed for him, all in an instant of time, changed beyond recognition. If that sort of thing could happen . . . It was unfair. Here was a man trying (for the first time in his life) to do what was obviously the right thing-the thing that Jane and the Dimbles and Aunt Gilly would have approved of. You might have expected that when a man behaved in that way the universe would back him up. For the relics of such semi-savage versions of Theism as Mark had picked up in the course of his life were stronger in him than he knew, and he felt, though he would not have put it into words, that it was “up to” the universe to reward his good resolutions. Yet the very first moment you tried to be good, the universe let you down. It revealed gaps you had never dreamed of. It invented new laws for the express purpose of letting you down. That was what you got for your pains.

The cynics, then, were right. But at this thought, he stopped sharply. Some flavour that came with it had given him pause. Was this the other mood beginning again? Oh, not that, at any price! He clenched his hands. No, no, no! He could not stand this much longer. He wanted Jane: he wanted Mrs. Dimble: he wanted Denniston. He wanted somebody or something. “Oh, don’t, don’t let me go back into it!” he said; and then louder, “Don’t, don’t!” All that could in any sense be called himself went into that cry; and the dreadful consciousness of having played his last card began to turn slowly into a sort of peace. There was nothing more to be done. Unconsciously he allowed his muscles to relax. His young body was very tired by this time and even the hard floor was grateful to it. The cell also seemed to be somehow emptied and purged, as if it, too, were tired after the conflicts it had witnessed-emptied like a sky after rain, tired like a child after weeping. A dim consciousness that the night must be nearly ended stole over him, and he fell asleep.

“STAND! Stand where you are and tell me your name and business,” said Ransom.

The ragged figure on the threshold tilted its head a little sideways like one who cannot quite hear. At the same moment the wind from the opened door had its way with the house. The inner door, between the scullery and the kitchen, clapped to with a loud bang, isolating the three men from the women, and a large tin basin fell clattering into the sink. The stranger took a pace farther into the room.

“Sta,” said Ransom in a great voice. “In nomine Patri et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, dic mihi qui sis et quam ob causam venenis.” (Stand. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, tell me who you are and why you come.)

The Stranger raised his hand and flung back the dripping hair from his forehead. The light fell full on his face, from which Ransom had the impression of an immense quietness. Every muscle of this man’s body seemed as relaxed as if he were asleep, and he stood absolutely still. Each drop of rain from the khaki coat struck the tiled floor exactly where the drop before it had fallen.

His eyes rested on Ransom for a second or two with no particular interest. Then he turned his head to his left, to where the door was flung back almost against the wall. MacPhee was concealed behind it.

“Come out,” said the Stranger, in Latin. The words were spoken almost in a whisper, but so deep that even in that wind-shaken room they made a kind of vibration. But what surprised Ransom much more was the fact that MacPhee immediately obeyed. He did not look at Ransom but at the Stranger. Then, unexpectedly, he gave an enormous yawn. The Stranger looked him up and down and then turned to the Director.

“Fellow,” he said in Latin, “tell the Lord of this House that I am come.” As he spoke, the wind from behind him was whipping the coat about his legs and blowing his hair over his forehead: but his great mass stood as if it had been planted like a tree, and he seemed in no hurry. And the voice, too, was such as one might imagine to be the voice of a tree, large and slow and patient, drawn up through roots and clay and gravel from the depths of the Earth.

“I am the Master here,” said Ransom, in the same language.

“To be sure!” answered the Stranger. “And yonder whipper-snapper (mastigia) is without doubt your Bishop.” He did not exactly smile, but a look of disquieting amusement came into his keen eyes. Suddenly he poked his head forward so as to bring his face much nearer to the Director’s.

“Tell your master that I am come,” he repeated in the same voice as before.

Ransom looked at him without the flicker of an eyelid.

“Do you really wish,” he said at last, “that I call upon my Masters?”

“A daw that lives in a hermit’s cell has learned before now to chatter book-Latin,” said the other. “Let us hear our calling, mannikin (homuncio).”

“I must use another language for it,” said Ransom.

“A daw could have Greek also in its bill.”

“It is not Greek.”

“Let us hear your Hebrew, then.”

“It is not Hebrew.”

“Nay,” answered the other with something like a chuckle, a chuckle deep hidden in his enormous chest and betrayed only by a slight movement of his shoulders, “if you come to the gabble of barbarians, it will go hard but I shall out-chatter you. Here is excellent sport.”

“It may happen to seem to you the speech of barbarians” said Ransom, “for it is long since it has been heard. Not even in Numinor was it heard in the streets.”

The Stranger gave no start and his face remained as quiet as before, if it did not become quieter; but he spoke with a new interest.

“Your Masters let you play with dangerous toys,” he said. “Tell me, slave, what is Numinor?”

“The true West,” said Ransom.

“Well . . .” said the other. Then, after a pause, he added, “You have little courtesy to guests in this house. It is a cold wind on my back, and I have been long in bed. You see I have already crossed the threshold.”

“I value that at a straw,” said Ransom. “Shut the door, MacPhee,” he added in English. But there was no response; and looking round for the first time, he saw that MacPhee had sat down in the one chair which the scullery contained and was fast asleep.

“What is the meaning of this foolery?” said Ransom looking sharply at the Stranger.

“If you are indeed the Master of this house, you have no need to be told. If not, why should I give account of myself to such as you? Do not fear; your horse-boy will be none the worse.”

“This shall be seen to shortly,” said Ransom. “In the meantime, I do not fear your entering the house. I have more cause to fear your escaping. Shut the door if you will, for you see my foot is hurt.”

The Stranger, without ever taking his eyes off Ransom; swept back his left hand behind him, found the door handle, and slammed the door to. MacPhee never stirred.

“Now,” he said, “what of these Masters of yours?”

“My Masters are the Oyeresu.”

“Where did you hear that name?” asked the Stranger.