It was a long, long passage, high in the roof, though narrow of course in comparison with its length, but wide enough for Hugh—­for Hugh and Jeanne hand-in-hand even—­to walk along with perfect comfort and great satisfaction, for oh, it was so prettily lighted up!  You have, I daresay, children, often admired in London or Paris, or some great town, the rows of gas lamps lighting up at night miles of some very long street.  Fancy those lights infinitely brighter and clearer, and yet softer than any lamps you ever saw, and each one of a different colour, from the richest crimson to the softest pale blue, and you will have some idea how pretty the long corridor before him looked to Hugh.  He stepped along delightedly, as well he might.  “Why, this of itself is worth staying awake ever so many nights to see,” he said to himself; “only I do wish Jeanne were with me.”

Where did the corridor lead to?  He ran on and on for some time without thinking much about this, so interested was he in observing the lamps and the pretty way in which the tints were arranged; but after a while he began to find it a little monotonous, especially when he noticed that at long intervals the colours repeated themselves, the succession of shades beginning again from time to time.

“I shall learn them by heart if I go on here much longer,” thought Hugh.  “I think I’ll sit down a little to rest.  Not that I feel tired of walking, but I may as well sit down a little.”

He did so—­on the ground, there was nothing else to sit on—­and then a very queer thing happened.  The lamps took to moving instead of him, so that when he looked up at them the impression was just the same as when he himself had been running along.  The colours succeeded each other in the same order, and Hugh began to wonder whether his eyes were not deceiving him in some queer way.

“Anyhow, I’ll run on a little farther,” he said to himself, “and if I don’t come to the end of this passage soon, I’ll run back again to the other end.  It feels just as if I had got inside a kaleidoscope.”

He hastened on, and was beginning really to think of turning back again and running the other way, when, all of a sudden—­everything in this queer tapestry world he had got into seemed to happen all of a sudden—­a little bell was heard to ring, clear and silvery, but not very loud, and in another instant—­oh dear!—­all the pretty coloured lamps were extinguished, and poor Hugh was left standing all in the dark.  Where he was he did not know, what to do he did not know; had he not been eight years old on his last birthday I almost think he would have begun to cry.  He felt, too, all of a sudden so cold, even though before he had got out of bed he had taken the precaution to put on his red flannel dressing-gown, and till now had felt quite pleasantly warm.  It was only for half a moment, however, that the idea of crying came over him.

“I’m very glad poor little Jeanne isn’t here,” he said to himself by way of keeping up his own courage; “she would have been afraid.  But as I’m a boy it doesn’t matter.  I’ll just try to find my way all the same.  I suppose it’s some trick of that Dudu’s.”