Page:Frank Owen - The Scarlett Hill, 1941.djvu/23

 He laughed, or was it a grunt of content? It was foolish, but tonight he was in an amiable mood. After all, it could do no harm. And perhaps it would be as effective as "Pills of Gratification." Besides, it might contain much of interest.

So they followed the old necromancer into his shabby quarters, a small room, on the bare earth, barren of furniture. In the center, a drum lay upon the ground like a table, a drum covered with sand lightly spread over its beating surface as evenly as on the banks of the far Yellow Sea. Above, exactly centering it, suspended by a thin strand of silk, was a long, sharp-pointed bamboo pen. Near by, stuck in a yellow wooden candlestick, a lighted candle spluttered feebly. It made the shadow of old Visram loom up monstrously.

Although the air had been warm and heavy with spices among the winding lanes of the bazaars, within the rude shelter it was damp and cheerless as the labyrinths of a monastery. Old Visram seemed nervous and ill at ease. He was disturbed at the way the candle was burning. Large globules of grease, formed, ran down the sides and splashed over the ridge at the base. It worried him because he was so highly attuned to symbolism. He knew the way of men and spirits and dragons under the mountains. He knew every shape that haunted the dusk. Even foxes were no mystery to him. Fishermen employed him to paint eyes on their boats, because the eyes of Visram could see more clearly than anyone else. Coupled with his gifts, he had an uncanny dramatic sense. Yet now, as he watched the candle, he