“There is a story
of a subtle clerk, who goes to see an image in the city
of Rome, which stretched forth its right hand, on the
middle finger of which was written, "Strike here."
No one could tell the meaning of this; but the clerk observed,
as the sun shone against it, the shadow of the inscribed
finger on the ground at some distance.
He took a spade,
and began to dig on the spot. He came at length to a flight
of steps, and, descending, entered a hall, where he saw
a king and queen sitting at table with their nobles and
a multitude of people, all clothed in rich garments, but
no person spoke a word. A polished carbuncle illuminated
the whole room. In the opposite corner he perceived the
figure of a man standing, having a bended bow, with an
arrow, in his hand, as prepared to shoot. On his forehead
was written, "I am, who am. Nothing can escape my
stroke, not even yonder carbuncle, which shines so bright."
The clerk beheld all with amazement, and entering a chamber,
saw the most beautiful ladies working at a loom, in purple.
But all was silence. He next entered a room filled with
most excellent horses and asses; he touched some of them,
and they were instantly turned into stone. He next observed
all the apartments in the palace: