tritons armed with the scaly terminations of a
hydra. Cut crystals combining prismatic effects with those of
reflection. Mirrors repeated the light of precious stones, and sparkles
glittered in the darkest corners. It was impossible to guess whether
those many-sided, shining surfaces, where emerald green mingled with
the golden hues of the rising sun where floated a glimmer of
ever-varying colours, like those on a pigeon's neck, were miniature
mirrors or enormous beryls. Everywhere was magnificence, at once refined
and stupendous; if it was not the most diminutive of palaces, it was the
most gigantic of jewel-cases. A house for Mab or a jewel for Geo.

Gwynplaine sought an exit. He could not find one. Impossible to make out
his way. There is nothing so confusing as wealth seen for the first
time. Moreover, this was a labyrinth. At each step he was stopped by
some magnificent object which appeared to retard his exit, and to be
unwilling to let him pass. He was encompassed by a net of wonders. He
felt himself bound and held back.

What a horrible palace! he thought. Restless, he wandered through the
maze, asking himself what it all meant--whether he was in prison;
chafing, thirsting for the fresh air. He repeated Dea! Dea! as if that
word was the thread of the labyrinth, and must be held unbroken, to
guide him out of it. Now and then he shouted, "Ho! Any one there?" No
one answered. The rooms never came to an end. All was deserted, silent,
splendid, sinister. It realized the fables of enchanted castles. Hidden
pipes of hot air maintained a summer temperature in the building. It was
as if some magician had caught up the month of June and imprisoned it in
a labyrinth. There were pleasant odours now and then, and he crossed
currents of perfume, as though passing by invisible flowers. It was
warm. Carpets everywhere. One might have walked about there, unclothed.

Gwynplaine looked out of the windows. The view from each one was
different. From one he beheld gardens, sparkling with the freshness of a
spring morning; from another a plot decked with statues; from a third, a
patio in the Spanish style, a little square, flagged, mouldy, and cold.
At times he saw a river--it was the Thames; sometimes a great tower--it
was Windsor.

It was still so early that there were no signs of life without.

He stood still and listened.

"Oh! I will get out of this place," said he. "I will return to Dea! They
shall not keep me here by forc