Beheim ran away, arms siphoning, aim on tracking down a side section, needing to turn a corner on the whole insight, yet there ended up being no side entries. The hall seemed to stretch out into vastness, an endless positioning of lights calculated from iron mounts and shimmering, dull dim stone brocaded by hulls of greenery. He continued running until a join came in his side. At the point when he finally stopped, inclining toward the divider, his toiled breath breaking the quietness, he thought down the passageway and saw a white figure—small at that distance—remaining in or close to the spot from which he had escaped. He could feel the tumultuous pressing factor of that equivalent mental conflict that had influenced him when he located the white skyline line reporting the Patriarch’s advent. His legs were shaking, his lungs ablaze. He realized he was unable to run a lot farther. Disdain bubbled up in him, and he shouted out, “What do you need of me? I’m doing as you asked!” The Patriarch offered no hint of having heard. Beheim stumbled off a couple of steps. “What do you need of me?” he cried once more, and this time he got a reaction, however not of the sort he had wanted to elicit.The hall appeared to tip descending—maybe he were gazing into a well of point of view, a decreasing exhibit of blazing red tears and dark chunks of stone in whose penultimate profundity balanced the figure of the Patriarch, more a white seal than something living. A sensation of dizziness attacked Beheim. He grasped at the moist stones and shut his eyes. Sooner or later, mindfully, he opened them. He would have jumped at the chance to shout, to deliver the unfortunate pressing factor that was working in his chest; yet the sight before him appeared to have its own devastating gravity, a power that cut off his breath and made any clamor unthinkable. The Patriarch’s face filled his field of vision—he seemed to be a monster looking into the finish of a passage a couple of feet from where Beheim stood smoothed against the divider. It was a face with a shockingly fragile bone design, suggestive of a bat, of a weasel, of each sort of vermin: nose decreased to a knock with cuts; a lipless mouth from which jutted teeth the size of tusks; thick white skin bound with blue veins, their examples having the complexity of tattoos; the eyes were lopsidedly enormous, with scored understudies focusing irises whose dinky substance had all the earmarks of being whirling, consistently in motion, chosen to a great extent by glowing lights that sprouted and blurred with the irregularity of foxfire. The mouth opened, uncovering a supplement of needled, bloodstained teeth; a spout of carcass breath followed. Beheim dirtied himself. He sank to the floor, his solidarity gone, turned his eyes to the divider, and hung tight for the end. Yet, the end didn’t come. Rather he heard a refined manly voice say, “Come, my youngster. Sit and talk with me for a spell.”
The one who had spoken was slim and youthful, quite a long while more youthful, it showed up, than Beheim, with a wide Byronic face outlined by dull twists; he wore a surging shirt of white silk and free dark pants, and on the fourth finger of his right hand was an enormous gold seal ring. He was possessing a fashioned iron seat at the focal point of a twilight patio, encased by crenelated dividers of three stories in tallness—they should, Beheim acknowledged, be at the actual top of the palace—and ringed by pruned greeneries and blooming plants; it was cleared with a mosaic of flagstones and partitioned into alcoves by a course of action of plant tangled lattices. The moon was straightforwardly overhead, cutting a sharp cut of shadow across the westernmost quarter of the yard, where a short flight of stairs drove up into a room with covered windows. With a dandy signal, the man showed a second fashioned iron seat, flanked by a table of like plan, and again asked Beheim to sit. However he was as yet apprehensive, realizing the man was just a more respectable manifestation of the fiendish animal in the passage, he needed to accept that some convenience had been reached, some test passed, and that things would now continue at a normal speed and measure. Supporting this expectation was the way that his fouled garments were missing, and in their stead he was presently wearing a shirt and pants indistinguishable from those well used by the Patriarch. He stood up and strolled precariously to the seat. The Patriarch’s grin was beguiling, honest; he was by all accounts radiating his endorsement of all Beheim’s activities.