Yea see that the cressets art now burning in the dim hall to which yea host hast admitted yea; though yea hast nae perceived the time and agency of their lighting. The illumination they afford 'tis singularly vague and indistinct, and the thronging shadows of the hall art unexplainably numerous, and move with a mysterious disquiet. Though the flames themselves art still as tapers that burn for the dead in a windless vault.
At the end of the passage, the Ard Rhi Muradb flings open a heavy door of dark and somber wood.
