From this we looked down through a kind of grating, and saw beneath us the most gloomy sight I yet had witnessed. It seemed as if from this particular spot one saw the whole of the gloomy cells and prisons stretching out and down on either side farther than the eye could pierce into the darkness. They ranged side by side in even order, and by the door of each flowed the black river, gurgling as it passed. Every door had its particular number shining in vivid red, whilst arches like those which form the crypts of churches spanned and linked the whole. And from here one saw within the hidden walls into each secret cell, where the naked soul, bereft of every false covering, saw itself as it really was and could not understand. But now the bell had ceased, and, as it were, moved by one impulse every wretched soul flung itself down upon the floor beside the altar. “Oh, God! remove the darkness. Give us light! Light! More Light!” And one general cry ascended, one universal cry of bitterness, which died down into still more bitter silence. As they knelt the light came—the lurid glow of hell—rising like sulphur fumes about the pillars. Each as they felt its presence rose and turned towards the doors, and they raised their hands above their heads, and now no sound fell on the ear. It was simply the dream-light of unreality, nothing of purity lived in it. Presently, as a dark curtain drawn across the scene, came blackness, blotting them out for ever. What happened to each, or what his lot, or when his term of prison life was over, who can tell? Those who keep the books of Hell and Heaven alone know. CHAPTER VI “I shall not trouble you any further,” said Vestasian. “You look tired, and there is little pleasure in this kind of work except to those who understand and care for it.” As we descended the steps he took a path which led us once more out into the gardens instead of back to the guests. “Your guests will miss you,” I remarked. “But probably they have a very charming hostess.” He shook his head. “They have none,” he answered; “but they can amuse themselves.” “Have you no one then besides yourself who reigns over all this magnificence?” I queried. I noticed that he smiled. “I am a solitary monarch,” he replied, “and yet—yes—I have a wife—a queen if you will.” “Are you not interested?” he asked at length. “Yes. I did not want to betray an impertinent curiosity.” “We understand each other,” he went on easily. “If not, I should never have cultivated your acquaintance.” “Then, as you know, it is my greatest pleasure to hear of others, provided I may do it without prying and without giving offence.” “Well,” said he, whimsically, “my wife never attends social functions, neither does she entertain.” “Indeed,” I interjected, and relapsed into silence. “She is not quite the same as the spirits who reside here, and therefore she lives apart, and rarely visits with them.”