We passed soon into another room, hung entirely in red, with weird, cabalistic signs all about, on the walls. It was uncanny, creepy.
A huge reproduction in plaster of one of the most sardonic of Notre Dame’s gargoyles seemed to preside over everything—a terrible figure in such an atmosphere.
As we entered, we were struck by the blinding glare of the light, in contrast with the darkened room in which we had passed our brief novitiate, if it might be called such.
Suddenly the lights were extinguished.
The great gargoyle shone with an infernal light of its own!
“Phosphorescent paint,” whispered Kennedy to me.
Still, it did not detract from the weird effect to know what caused it.
There was a startling noise in the general hush.
“Sata!” cried one of the devotees.
A door opened and there appeared the veritable priest of the Devil—pale of face, nose sharp, mouth bitter, eyes glassy.