The floor was hid with rich carpets made of coloured Eastern wools.

The furniture also was rich and foreign-looking, being inlaid with ivory and silver, while on the table stood a golden crucifix, a miracle of art, and upon an easel, so that the light from a hanging silver lamp fell on it, a life-sized picture of the Magdalene by some great Italian painter, turning her beauteous eyes to heaven and beating her fair breast.
Sir John looked about him and sniffed.
"Now, Jeffrey, would you think that you were in a monk's cell or in some great dame's bower?
Hunt under the table, man; sure, you will find her lute and needlework.

Whose portrait is that, think you ?" and he pointed to the Magdalene.
"A sinner turning saint, I think, master.

Good company for laymen when she was sinner, and good for priests now that she is saint.

For the rest, I could snore well here after a cup of yon red wine," and he jerked his thumb towards a long-necked bottle on a sideboard.