The white Targa had flattened himself back against the wall.
"Good," I mumbled, picking myself up, "the deviltries are beginning."
We continued on our way. A glow different from that of the rose night lights soon began to light up the corridor.
We reached a high bronze door, in which a strange lacy
design had been cut in filigree. A clear gong sounded, and the double doors opened part way. The Targa remained in the corridor, closing the doors after me.
I took a few steps forward mechanically, then paused, rooted to the spot, and rubbed my eyes.
I was dazzled by the sight of the sky.
Several hours of shaded light had unaccustomed me to daylight. It poured in through one whole side of the huge room.
The room was in the lower part of this mountain, which was more honeycombed with corridors and passages than an Egyptian pyramid. It was on a level with the garden which I had seen in the morning from the balcony, and seemed to be a continuation of it; the carpet extended out under the great palm trees and the birds flew about the forest of pillars in the room.
By contrast, the half of the room untouched by direct light from the oasis seemed dark. The sun, setting behind the mountain, painted the garden paths with rose and flamed with red upon the traditional flamingo which stood with one foot raised at the edge of the sapphire lake.