It looked as though the pent-up force within was striving all the time to shoot up to the roof and any moment might succeed.
But the strangest thing of all was that with all this look of hidden power there was no sound, and no drop of water overflowed the hollow basin.

The ground we stood on was a slab of solid rock and dry as bone,--no splash, no sound, no drop outside,--only the silent and powerful up-thrust of the water from below, the silent golden rings that tumbled to the sides of the basin, and the constant expectation of something more which never came.
It was Carette's quick understanding that named it.
"It is like Krok," she whispered, and the word was said.

It was all as like Krok--not the outside man, but the inner Krok, dumb and powerful, silently doing his appointed work--as anything that could be imagined.
"Yes," I said.

"It is like Krok.

It is very wonderful--running like that all through, the ages--since the cave was made anyway--very wonderful." She stooped to dip her hand and taste it, and then drew back.
"It looks as if it would bite," she said, and I took off the lid of the can and scooped up a draught and drank it.
"The sweetest water I ever tasted, and cold as ice.