Nothing could be more clear. The Doge became Boaz; the ten disks, representing, as we had thought, the Council of Ten, were the elders of the city.
I read the story of Samson and the lion. It was indisputably the scene of the first hour. The very words were a challenge–a clear statement in black and white–that he who should solve the riddle of the clock would have his reward. And he who failed should have his penalty to pay–the forfeiture of peace of mind and content–a bitter enough wage for failure:
And Samson said unto them, I will now put forth a riddle unto you: If ye shall certainly solve it within seven days of the feast, and find it out, then will I give you thirty sheets and thirty changes of raiment.
But if ye solve it not within seven days, then shall ye give to me thirty sheets and thirty changes of raiment.
“I will put forth a riddle unto you!” And a brave riddle it had been. The mad goldsmith had taken these old Bible stories for his key–a key that he knew was as imperishable as time itself, and yet a key that would guard his secret well. To the Catholic of that day the Bible was a sealed book.
But if this were true–if these stories were indeed the key–was the riddle easier of solution? Would the Bible stories be more readily understood than the Venetian stories?
The theory of St. Hilary flashed across my mind. The cipher–that was the clue. In each of the scenes of the background a certain number had been mentioned. Thirty changes of raiment. Seven days. Six steps to the throne. Two lions. Thus was my second great discovery made.
Each scene from the Bible involved certain numbers.
I read the story of David and Goliath:
And there went a champion out of the camp of the Philistines named Goliath, whose height was six cubits and a span.