And he looked inquiringly at the Grand Chamberlain.
The latter shook his head dubiously.
"I fear the Capitano can hardly be asleep, since we have called him so loudly," he said, looking from the one to the other. "I would suggest that the door of the chapel be forced."
They were some time about it. The door was of massive oak, the lock well made and true. A man-at-arms had been despatched to another part of the Lateran to bring a locksmith who, for nearly half an hour, toiled at his task.
It was accomplished at last and the four entered the chapel.
It stretched before them, long, narrow, almost fantastic in the grey light of morning.
The painted ceiling above held no color now. The mosaics of the floor were dead and lifeless. In the centre of the chapel, with face unnaturally pale, sat Tristan, huddled up in the velvet chair. By his side lay his naked sword.
The lamp which was suspended from the centre of the ceiling had almost expired.
In front of the altar the wick, floating on the oil, in its bowl of red glass, gave almost the only note of color against the grey.
As they entered the chapel, the four genuflected to the altar. And while the Prefect and Basil went over to where Tristan was sleeping in his chair, and stood about with alarmed eyes, the Cardinal of Orvieto and the Archbishop of Ravenna approached the tabernacle with the proper reverences, parted the curtains and staggered back, indescribable horror in their faces.