wealth, less memory and thought, I verily believe, than then.

So I lifted up my eyes and gazed; no glass in the windows, no hangings
on the walls; the vaulting yet held good throughout, but seemed to be
going; the mortar had fallen out from between the stones, and grass
and fern grew in the joints; the marble pavement was in some places
gone, and water stood about in puddles, though one scarce knew how it
had got there.

No hangings on the walls- no; yet, strange to say, instead of them,
the walls blazed from end to end with scarlet paintings, only striped
across with green damp-marks in many places, some falling bodily from
the wall, the plaster hanging down with the fading colour on it.

In all of them, except for the shadows and the faces of the figures,
there was scarce any colour but scarlet and yellow. Here and there it
seemed the painter, whoever it was, had tried to make his trees or his
grass green, but it would not do; some ghastly thoughts must have
filled his head, for all the green went presently into yellow,
out-sweeping through the picture dismally. But the faces were painted
to the very life, or it seemed so; there were only five of them,
however, that were very marked or came much in the foreground; and
four of these I knew well, though I did not then remember the names of
those that had borne them. They were Red Harald, Swanhilda, Amald, and
myself. The fifth I did not know; it was a woman's and very beautiful.

Then I saw that in some parts a small penthouse roof had been built
over the paintings, to keep them from the weather. Near one of these
stood a man painting, clothed in red, with stripes of yellow and
black: Then I knew that it was the same man who had saved me from