Durdles has lighted his lantern, by drawing from the cold, hard
wall a spark of that mysterious fire which lurks in everything,
and, guided by this speck, they clamber up among the cobwebs and
the dust. Their way lies through strange places. Twice or thrice
they emerge into level, low-arched galleries, whence they can look
down into the moon-lit nave; and where Durdles, waving his lantern,
waves the dim angels' heads upon the corbels of the roof, seeming
to watch their progress. Anon they turn into narrower and steeper
staircases, and the night-air begins to blow upon them, and the
chirp of some startled jackdaw or frightened rook precedes the
heavy beating of wings in a confined space, and the beating down of
dust and straws upon their heads. At last, leaving their light
behind a stair--for it blows fresh up here--they look down on
Cloisterham, fair to see in the moonlight: its ruined habitations
and sanctuaries of the dead, at the tower's base: its moss-
softened red-tiled roofs and red-brick houses of the living,
clustered beyond: its river winding down from the mist on the
horizon, as though that were its source, and already heaving with a
restless knowledge of its approach towards the sea.
Once again, an unaccountable expedition this! Jasper (always
moving softly with no visible reason) contemplates the scene, and
especially that stillest part of it which the Cathedral
overshadows.
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