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Updated: June 24, 2025
We have learned the secret of time and space and we have come for you, my son. But before we go, we must rid ourselves of the mischief-makers." The lights darted down upon Grim Hagen's men. And as they touched them, the cold of space came flowing through. They fell one by one. And the hoar-frost covered them like spiderwebs across the faces and bodies of long-dead mummies.
Apparently a mummy in a tomb, the mummy of some long-dead lady of a strange and alien race. Was she such a one as that old lunatic Potts had dreamed he saw standing before him in the filthy, cumbered upper-chamber of a ruinous house in an England market town, I wondered, one with great eyes like to those of a doe and a regal bearing? No, that was nonsense.
Just as a man shows in himself traces of a long-dead ancestry, so words have the power to revive emotions of past generations and the experiences of former years. The man of letters, the Thinker, strews a handful of words into the air, breathes a little song. The words spring up and bring forth fruit. Their seed is human progress and a larger life for men.
Katrina looked at her vaguely, as one seeking to recall a fleeting moment of the long-dead past; but the professor responded with gratified alacrity. "But you shall see them!" he cried. "Surely, yes;" and like a jovial school-boy he led us up to the third floor.
It does not show itself in deeds, but in boastings in howlings, gesticulations, and shrieking helplessly for help in flying flags and singing songs and in perpetual grinding at the hurdy-gurdy of long-dead grievances and long-remedied wrongs. To be infested by SUCH a patriotism as this is, perhaps, amongst the greatest curses that can befall any country.
Dim, shadowy shapes appeared to be moving about in the semi-darkness of the interior. There was nothing tangible that the eye could grasp only an uncanny suggestion of life where it seemed that there should be no life, for living things seemed out of place in this weird, dead city of the long-dead past.
I confess that an eerie feeling came over me as I unfolded these five closely-written, unsigned and undated little squares of yellow paper, things intended so exclusively for the mere moment of writing and reading, all that long-dead momentary passion of a long-dead man and woman quivering back into reality, filling, as an assembly of ghosts might fill a house, and drive out its living occupants, this present hour which so soon will itself have become, with all its passions and worries, a part of the past, of the indifferent, the passionless.
The inevitable row of rocking-chairs swayed back and forth on the seaward side. Most of them were empty, save, perhaps, for the ghosts of long-dead gossips who had sat and rocked and talked and rocked from one meal to the next. The paint on the veranda was worn in a long series of parallel lines, slightly curved, but nobody cared.
Thus, by the help of the Rosetta Stone, and after years of patient labour, the long-dead language could be read once more. Egypt the land into which Joseph was sold, where the Israelites became a nation, and Moses was born and educated!
Had I killed him? How limp and cold he was! And then all of a sudden an uneasy feeling came upon me. I reached out, and throwing a handful of dried stuff upon the embers the fire danced gaily up into the air, and the blaze showed me I was savagely holding down to the gravel and kneeling on the chest of that long-dead king from my grotto wall! It was the man out of the ice without a doubt.
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