“Shall I light one of these candles?” I whispered. “Is it safe?”
He nodded, and I took one of the candles from its sconce. St. Hilary stood by the great fireplace, where two lions crouched.
“These must be the two lions of the eighth landmark,” I said.
I held the candle high above my head. As the light flared, vague spectral forms seemed to spring out of the darkness and to vanish. Our shadows, gigantic and monstrous, danced grotesquely on the polished floor. In a dozen mirrors our figures were dimly reflected.
“The ninth hour?” demanded St. Hilary hoarsely.
“And Joseph said, Behold, I have dreamed a dream, and behold, the sun and moon and the eleven stars made obeisance to me,” I answered.
He clutched my arm. He pointed far above the mantel.
At first I did not understand. In front of us yawned the great fireplace. Two bowed and wearied giants supported the hooded marble mantel, their feet braced fantastically against the two crouching lions. The polished breasts and thighs of the figures glowed in the faint candle-light. Above, the space from the mantel to the very ceiling was filled with paneling, dark and somber with age and smoke, all richly and delicately carved, a design infinitely confusing with its entwined and intricate figures. A medley of chariots and horses, armored warriors and banners, all impossibly crowded together, like a frieze in a Greek temple–that is my vague impression of the carving.
“The sun and the moon and the eleven stars,” muttered St. Hilary, still pointing.
Suddenly I understood. It was the scene of Joshua going forth to battle, commanding the sun and moon to stand still. On the right shone the sun, its rays naively depicted; on the left shone the moon. Joshua held a banner in his hand, and on the banner were eleven stars.