At the distant window glimmered the chill east, with a few feeble stars in it, and its like was dreary and old, growing brown, and looking as if it were thinking about the day that was just gone.
Presently he turned into another passage, which also had a window at the end of it; and in at that window shone all that was left of the sunset, just a few ashes, with here and there a little touch of warmth: it was nearly as sad as the east, only there was one difference--it was very plainly thinking of tomorrow.
But at present Curdie had nothing to do with today or tomorrow; his business was with the bird, and the tower where dwelt the grand old princess to whom it belonged.

So he kept on his way, still eastward, and came to yet another passage, which brought him to a door.

He was afraid to open it without first knocking.

He knocked, but heard no answer.

He was answered nevertheless; for the door gently opened, and there was a narrow stair--and so steep that, big lad as he was, he, too, like the Princess Irene before him, found his hands needful for the climbing.