His vestments are of gold, and he wears a golden crown, but the humble faithful speak to him freely, and even touch his gorgeous garments, that might be those of one of the Wise Kings.

He smiles, and letting fall the curtain, which covers the entrance to the tabernacle, disappears again into this innocent mystery.
Even the least things here tell of decay.

The flagstones, trodden by the feet of numberless dead generations, are become uneven through the settling of the soil.

Everything is askew, bent, dusty and worn-out.
The daylight comes from above, through narrow barred windows.

There is a lack of air, so that one almost stifles.