“If you will pardon me, I will precede you, gentlemen. There is a trapdoor at the top.”
“And did the great astrologer Bembo have to climb out of that hole whenever he wished to consult the hour of day?” I asked jocosely.
“You will see,” answered the priest smiling.
When first we stepped out on the roof, the glitter of the fierce sun on the leads blinded us. We looked in vain for the dial. The priest walked to the parapet where a stone bench stood and pointed to a large circle cut deep in the leads at the foot of the bench.
“Ecco, Signori, your curious dial, and the Signs of the Zodiac also. The needle of the dial is not the truly original one. That was broken long ago. But the one we have replaced it with is precisely similar to the antique.”
St. Hilary and I sank on our knees to observe it the more closely and to whisper to each other without the good father overhearing us. The dealer traced a line tremblingly with his forefinger.
“Here,” he whispered, “is where the shadow falls at twelve o’clock. Ten degrees before that, it must point in this direction.”
He squinted along the imaginary line. It led him over the parapet, and in either direction it directed us to nothing more definite than the blue sky.
“But at ten degrees after twelve,” I whispered hoarsely, “it points with absolute directness to that square tower, the tower of Noah and his dove, depend upon it. We have found the seventh landmark.”
We stood upright and brushed the dust from our knees. St. Hilary produced a note-book, and began to scribble notes and to sketch the dial with every show of professional interest.