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A voice from the pit by Bernard
Redward Capes Signior, where arrived, whispered

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the old man in my ear,
and he put out a sudden cold hand

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caught it like melon, rinned to
stay me. In the stumbling darkness.

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We were on a tilted table land
of the mountain, and looking forth and

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below, the far and ago crescent
of the bay, where it swept towards

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Castlemere, seemed to rise up at
me as if it were a perpendicular wall,

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across which white crests of the waves
flew like ghost moths. We skirted

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a boulder and came upon a field
of sleek, purple lava, sewn all

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over with little lemon jets of silent
smoke, which, in their van and

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melancholy glow, might have been the
corpse lights of those innumerable dead, whose

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tombstone was the mountain itself. Far
away to the right, the great projecting

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socket of the crater flickered intermittently with
a nerve of fire. It was like

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the glint of the watchful eye of
some vast crui satosine, and in the

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harsh and stupendous desolation, seemed the
final crown and expression of utter in humanity.

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I started upon hearing the low whisper
of my companion at my year in

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the bay yesterday. The Signor saved
my life. I give the Signor in

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return my life's secret. He seized
my right hand in his left with a

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sinewy clutch, and pointed a stiff
finger at the luminous bloods. See there,

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and there and there he shielled.
One floats and wavers like a spineless

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ribbon of seaweed in the water.
Another burns with a steady radiance. A

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third blares from its fissure like a
flame driven by the blue pipe. It

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is all a question of the undertrown, and some may feel it a little,

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and some a little more or a
little less. Ah. But I

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will show you one that feels it
not at all. A whole a narrow

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shaft that goes down into the pit
of the great hill, and as cold

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as the mouth of a barbel.
The bones of his face stood out like

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rocks against sand, and the pupils
of his maniac eyes were glazed or fell

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into shadow as the volcano lightnings fluttered. Suddenly he drew me to a broken

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pile of sulfur rock, lying tumbled
against a ridge of the mountain that ran

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towards the crater. It lay heaped, a fused and fantastic ruin, and

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in a moment that old man leapt
from me and was tugging by main strength

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a vast fragment from its place.
I leaned over his shoulder and looked down

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upon the hollow revealed by the displaced
boulder. It was like the bell of

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a mighty trumpet, and in the
middle a puckered opening seemed to suck inwards,

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as it were the mouth of some
subterranean monster risen to the surface of

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the world for air. Quick,
quick, muttered, pollow. The signor

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must place his ear to the hole. With a little lod stir my heart.

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I dropped upon my knees and leaned
my head deep into the cup.

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I must have stayed thus for a
full minute before I drew myself back and

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looked up at the old mountaineer.
His eyes gazed down into mine with mad

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intensity. Sir, Sir, he
whispered, what didst thou hear? I

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heard a long surging thunder polo and
the deep shrill screaming of many gas jets.

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He panned down with livid face,
Signor, it is the booming of

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the everlasting fire, And thou hast
heard the voices of the dand no,

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my friend, no, But it
is a marvelous transmission of the uproar of

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hidden forces. He leaped to the
shallow pit. Listen and believe, he

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cried, and funneling his hands about
his lips, he stooped over the central

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hole. Marco, Marco. He
screeched in a piercing voice. Something answered

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back. What was it? A
malformed and twisted echo, a whistle of

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imprisoned steam, tricked into some horrible
caricature of a human voice. Polo,

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it seemed, too, will weaken
faint with agony. Liquerra, liquerra,

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Polo. The old man stran to
his feet and looking down upon me in

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a sort of terrible triumph, and
slung a water flask from his belt,

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and, pulling out the cock,
poured the cold liquid down into the puckered

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orifice. Then I felt his clutch
on my arm again, Heat drinks.

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He cried, Listen, and thou
wilt understand. I rose with the ghost

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of a laugh, and once more
addressed my ear to the opening. From

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unthinkable depths came up a strange gloating
sound, as from a ravenous throat,

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made vibrant with ecstasy. Polo I
cried as I rose and stood before him,

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and there was an admonitory note in
my voice. Oh, feather may

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decide the balance. Weware meddling with
hidden thunders, or thou mayst set rolling

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such another tombstone as that on which
these corps fires are yet flaming. And

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he only answered me, set and
deadly, we of the mountains signor no

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more things than we may tell off
end off. A voice from the pit