At night, however, he resembled no one but himself, indeed there was something mighty and godlike in his appearance, something that made one feel that he was not as are other men.
For a while he would sit and look at me.

Then he began to speak in a low, vibrant voice.

What did he speak of?
Well, many matters.

It was as though he were unburdening that hoary soul of his because it could no longer endure the grandeur of its own loneliness.

Amongst sundry secret things, he told me of the past history of this world of ours, and of the mighty civilisations which for uncounted ages he and his forefathers had ruled by the strength of their will and knowledge, of the dwindling of their race and of the final destruction of its enemies, although I noticed that now he no longer said that this was his work alone.