At one extremity of the room was a huge door of glass and gilding; and opposite it, at the other extremity, was a glittering throne.

It stood on a raised dais, covered with crimson velvet, reached by two or three steps carpeted with the same; the throne was as magnificent as gold, and satin, and ornamentation could make it.

A great velvet canopy of the same deep, rich color, cut in antique points, and heavily hung with gold fringe, was above the seat of honor.
Beside it, to the right, but a little lower down, was a similar throne, somewhat less superb, and minus a canopy.

From the door to the throne was a long strip of crimson velvet, edged and embroidered with gold, and arranged in a sweeping semi-circle, on either side, were a row of great carved, gilded, and cushioned chairs, brilliant, too, with crimson and gold, and each for every-day Christians, a throne in itself.

Between the blaze of illumination, the flashing of gilding and gold, the tropical flush of crimson velvet, the rainbow dyes on floor and walls, the intoxicating gushes of perfume, and the delicious strains of unseen music, it is no wonder Sir Norman Kingsley's head was spinning like a bewildered teetotum.
Was he sane--was he sleeping?
Had he drank too much wine at the Golden Crown, and had it all gone to his head?
Was it a scene of earnest enchantment, or were fairy-tales true?
Like Abou Hasson when he awoke in the palace of the facetious Caliph of Bagdad, he had no notion of believing his own eyes and ears, and quietly concluded it was all an optical illusion, as ghosts are said to be; but he quietly resolved to stay there, nevertheless, and see how the dazzling phantasmagoria would end.