Secretly, as evildoers, Sir Henry Curtis, Umslopogaas, and myself
threaded our way through the passages towards a by-entrance to
the great Throne Chamber. Once we were met by the fierce rattling
challenge of the sentry. I gave the countersign, and the man
grounded his spear and let us pass. Also we were officers of
the Queens' bodyguard, and in that capacity had a right to come
and go unquestioned.
We gained the hall in safety. So empty and so still was it,
that even when we had passed the sound of our footsteps yet echoed
up the lofty walls, vibrating faintly and still more faintly
against the carven roof, like ghosts of the footsteps of dead
men haunting the place that once they trod.
It was an eerie spot, and it oppressed me. The moon was full,
and threw great pencils and patches of light through the high
windowless openings in the walls, that lay pure and beautiful
upon the blackness of the marble floor, like white flowers on
a coffin. One of these silver arrows fell upon the statue of
the sleeping Rademas, and of the angel form bent over him, illumining
it, and a small circle round it, with a soft clear light, reminding
me of that with which Catholics illumine the altars of their
cathedrals.
Here by the statue we took our stand, and waited.
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