But now I recognized a new
element in this familiar chamber; a strange contagion hung about the
walls; a something which imparted delicate edge to the nervous system
was perceptible in the dry heat of the air. Near an oracular table,
which bore evidence of recent manipulation, stood the Reverend Charles
Clifton: others had evidently been with him before our entrance; he was
now alone. An oil-lamp sputtered feebly in the corner. The stove-devil
glared at us through his one glazed eye, and puffed out his mephitic
welcome as I shut the door.
"Clifton, my old friend!" exclaimed Dr. Burge.
The person addressed raised his head, half closed his eyes, as one who
endeavors to fix objects which are flitting before him. It seemed
necessary to withdraw his inward gaze from some delicious dazzlement of
dream-land. At last he spoke slowly and with effort.
"Burge, you here?--and one of us?"
"Heaven forbid!" cried my companion. "I but look upon these things for
my own warning, and in the way of my duty as teacher to those who might
be disposed to tamper with unknown powers, within or without."
"Say, rather, to melt the iron links which gyve soul to body," said
Clifton, in constrained articulation, through which a moaning undertone
seemed ever trying to be heard.
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