It was now so dark that I could barely distinguish the outlines of our
guide, who walked ahead of me. Suddenly he stopped and asked me if I
had any matches. I handed him my box, which he dropped, and the
matches were scattered about in the mud at our feet. He gave me back
my box, and asked Ajax for his matches. I dare say older and wiser men
would have apprehended mischief, but we were still in our salad days.
Ajax gave up his box without a protest; the man struck a match, after
some fumbling lit a piece of candle, and returned to my brother his
box. It was empty--for he had cleverly transferred the matches to his
own pocket--but we did not know that then. By the light of the candle
I was able to take stock of my surroundings. We were facing a stout
door: a door that without doubt had been constructed for purposes of
defence, and upon the centre of this our guide tapped softly--three
times. It opened at once, revealing the big body of a Celestial,
evidently the Cerberus of the establishment. Upon his fat impassive
face lay the seal of an unctuous secrecy, nothing more. Out of his
obliquely-set eyes he regarded us indifferently, but he nodded to our
guide, who returned the salutation with a sly laugh.
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