I say, you must speak though."
The figures advanced: they stuck their torches in a niche that
was by; and then they placed each of them a hand on the
shoulder of Mick.
"No, no; none of that," said Mick, trying to disembarrass
himself.
But, notwithstanding this fresh appeal, one of the silent
masks pinioned his arms; and in a moment the eyes of the
helpless friend of Devilsdust were bandaged.
Conducted by these guides, it seemed to Mick that he was
traversing interminable rooms, or rather galleries, for once
stretching out his arm, while one of his supporters had
momentarily quitted him to open some gate or door, Mick
touched a wall. At length one of the masks spoke, and said,
"In five minutes you will be in the presence of the SEVEN--
prepare."
At this moment rose the sound of distant voices singing in
concert, and gradually increasing in volume as Mick and the
masks advanced. One of these attendants now notifying to
their charge that he must kneel down, Mick found he rested on
a cushion, while at the same time his arms still pinioned, he
seemed to be left alone.
The voices became louder and louder; Mick could distinguish
the words and burthen of the hymn; he was sensible that many
persons were entering the apartment; he could distinguish the
measured tread of some solemn procession.
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