 Woolworth, and began dangling it in front of the faces of his guards, turning slowly round and round and repeating, ‘Pretty, pretty! See! See!’

The result of this manœuvre was more striking than Weston himself had anticipated. Such a roar of sounds as human ears had never heard before—baying of hrossa, piping of pfifltriggi, booming of sorns—burst out and rent the silence of that august place, waking echoes from the distant mountain walls.