Sunlight glorified the mosaic panes up here; and alternately, where no window pierced the stone wall, a chill darkness lurked. Thrusting up its ornate spires and pipes in perpendicular Gothic style was the organ case beneath the oculus window. Dry dust assailed his nose as he crawled behind the organ to examine its geometric world of square and round pipes. Coming out, after a time, he paused to look over the balustrade into the hollowed out nave below, and was seized with awe; the Gothic craftsman had been clever, for their arboreal and animal carvings on pew boards, corbel-tables, and moldings seemed living things frozen in acts of motion, waiting for some mysterious summons before they convulsed with life again. Penhryn felt an oppressive sense of heat; and looking up, saw last, lingering sunlight burning through a window. And the sainted figure that looked down at him seemed to be twisting agonizingly, as though its abode there was some fiery hell. The window frames were wrought in sections resembling flame tongues--a feature similar to the French Flamboyant Gothic style--which furthered the illusion that the window opened into a fiery domain. And he speculated if flame tracery was not also deliberately fashioned, along with the grotesqueness of the Gothic carvings. Another thought, of imitative magic--at least the wish it expressed--came to mind as he looked at the fiery window, and he grew more uneasy. Quite suddenly he realized there was _some sort_ of blistering warmth emanating from the window--too much for comfort--and he retired into the gloom. Raising his eyes upwards to the clerestory regions, he noted the irregular alignment of the longitudinal axis, proof that a later repair had been incorrectly engineered. While he studied this mistake, the shifting sunlight retreated roofwards as darkness filled the depths below, and he became aware of the long time he had browsed up here, hoping it was not so long that the verger may have forgotten his presence and locked him in. The thought terrified him--the spending of a cold night here--but why he could not say, or else did not want to dredge up the reason. Hastening downwards he found his worst fears were true. The entrance door had been locked. A kind of reasonless panic threatened to engulf him--his theories about Gothic art were the blame--but by mimicking the verger's pedantic cynicism, he kept a surface calm. Possibly he could find a broken pane somewheres where he could shout out until someone came. Penhryn had barely made up his mind when it happened. Hitherto all was a canvas of dead silence but now a sound was brushed across it. From the transept of the Reliquary it had come; and as he turned in that direction he sensed, then saw, a stirring in the almost impenetrable dark. Fear had called up that presence.