Common sense, or what I took for common sense, however, triumphed, and, after loitering for another five minutes, I did go in again.

This time, ignoring, to the best of my ability, the beetles on the floor, I proceeded to expend my curiosity—­and occupy my thoughts —­in an examination of the bed.  It only needed a very cursory examination, however, to show that the seeming bed was, in reality, none at all,—­or if it was a bed after the manner of the Easterns it certainly was not after the fashion of the Britons.  There was no framework,—­nothing to represent the bedstead.  It was simply a heap of rugs piled apparently indiscriminately upon the floor.  A huge mass of them there seemed to be; of all sorts, and shapes, and sizes,—­and materials too.

The top one was of white silk,—­in quality, exquisite.  It was of huge size, yet, with a little compression, one might almost have passed it through the proverbial wedding ring.  So far as space admitted I spread it out in front of me.  In the middle was a picture,—­whether it was embroidered on the substance or woven in it, I could not quite make out.  Nor, at first, could I gather what it was the artist had intended to depict,—­there was a brilliancy about it which was rather dazzling.  By degrees, I realised that the lurid hues were meant for flames,—­and, when one had got so far, one perceived that they were by no means badly imitated either.  Then the meaning of the thing dawned on me,—­it was a representation of a human sacrifice.  In its way, as ghastly a piece of realism as one could see.

On the right was the majestic seated figure of a goddess.  Her hands were crossed upon her knees, and she was naked from her waist upwards.  I fancied it was meant for Isis.  On her brow was perched a gaily-apparelled beetle—­that ubiquitous beetle!—­ forming a bright spot of colour against her coppery skin,—­it was an exact reproduction of the creatures which were imaged on the carpet.  In front of the idol was an enormous fiery furnace.  In the very heart of the flames was an altar.  On the altar was a naked white woman being burned alive.  There could be no doubt as to her being alive, for she was secured by chains in such a fashion that she was permitted a certain amount of freedom, of which she was availing herself to contort and twist her body into shapes which were horribly suggestive of the agony which she was enduring,—­the artist, indeed, seemed to have exhausted his powers in his efforts to convey a vivid impression of the pains which were tormenting her.

’A pretty picture, on my word!  A pleasant taste in art the garnitures of this establishment suggest!  The person who likes to live with this kind of thing, especially as a covering to his bed, must have his own notions as to what constitute agreeable surroundings.’

As I continued staring at the thing, all at once it seemed as if the woman on the altar moved.  It was preposterous, but she appeared to gather her limbs together, and turn half over.