The two young men left the palace and proceeded rapidly, by reason of the intense cold, through the ways, covered and uncovered, that led from the royal residence to the other buildings that, ringed by half-destroyed fortifications, formed the Hradcany. The night was moonless, and heavy clouds concealed the stars; lanterns placed at irregular intervals alone lit the way, but Luc de Clapiers guided his companion accurately enough to the entrance of the huge, soaring, unfinished, and yet triumphant cathedral of St. Vitus. “You have been here before?” he asked, as they stepped into the black hollow of the porch. Though they were of the same regiment, the two had never been intimate. “No, Monsieur,” came the fresh young voice out of the dark, “and you?--I have heard you reason on the new philosophy and speak as one of those who follow M. de Voltaire--as one of those who do not believe in God.” “I do not believe that He can be confined in a church,” answered Luc quietly. “Yet some churches are so beautiful that one must worship in them.” “What?” asked M. d’Espagnac, below his breath. “Glory, perhaps?” The captain did not answer; he gently pushed open a small door to one side of the porch. A thin glow of pale-coloured light fell over his dark cloak and serene face; beyond him could be seen a glimmer like jewels veiled under water. He pulled off his beaver and entered the cathedral, followed softly by his companion. For a moment they stood motionless within the door, which slipped silently into place behind them. The air was oppressive with the powerful perfume of strong incense, and yet even more bitterly cold than the outer night; the light was dim, flickering, rich, and luxurious, and came wholly from hanging lamps of yellow, blue, and red glass. In what appeared the extreme distance, the altar sparkled in the gleam of two huge candles of painted wax, and behind and about it showed green translucent, unsubstantial shapes of arches and pillars rising up and disappearing in the great darkness of the roof, which was as impenetrable as a starless heaven. The church was bare of chair or pew or stool; the straight sweep of the nave was broken only by the dark outlines of princely tombs where lay the dust of former Bohemian kings and queens: their reclining figures so much above and beyond humanity, yet so startlingly like life, could be seen in the flood of ruby light that poured from the lamps above them, with praying hands and reposeful feet, patient faces and untroubled pillows on which the stately heads had not stirred for centuries. “This is very old, this church, is it not?” whispered M. d’Espagnac. “Old? Yes, it was built in the days of faith. This is the legend”--he turned to the left, where two lights of a vivid green cast an unearthly hue over huge bronze gates that shut off a chapel of the utmost magnificence and barbaric vividness. A brass ring hung from one of these gates, and the Frenchman put out his fair hand and touched it.