We chatted about the weather and a half-dozen other inconsequential items, then Mr. Bartholomew said, “You’ve obviously been on a hard journey. I invite you to stay with me at my estate. I believe you’ll find it refreshing.”

“Can we?” Malaiki asked Shad. “We’ve been pushing so hard. We could really use a rest.”

We all nodded our agreement. Shad hesitated. Finally he said, “Well—all right.”

Bartholomew sent one of his attendants back to inform the chef we’d be joining them for dinner. He walked Thunder at a footpace and told us about his estate, which he said was more than a thousand acres. He pointed to landmarks along the way.

Particularly captivating were the green fields where I saw at least a dozen horses running. We’d walked next to his property for half a day when at last we came to his mansion. It was the size of a corporate headquarters but with a warm blend of ivy-covered brick and polished wood, sloping roofs and arches, large picture windows and ornate lattices and doorways.

“It’s the house of my dreams,” David said. I knew what he meant. I’d owned a couple of beautiful houses, but they were shacks compared to this.

When we entered the mansion, he escorted us to large bathrooms where we could clean up.

“I know you’re famished,” Mr. Bartholomew said, “so we’ll eat before I show you to your rooms. Meet me down the hallway at the waiting area outside the dining room.”

When a servant escorted us into the dining room, it took my breath away. It was the size of a house, with intricately carved cedar paneling and a thirty-foot-high, gold, frescoed ceiling. In the center of the room was an oak table with seating for sixteen, seven chairs on each side, two on the ends, one occupied by Bartholomew, the other by his wife, who wore an exquisite Victorian dress.

The high-back walnut chairs were ornately carved and had soft, embroidered cushions. Above the table was a fine cut-glass chandelier with at least forty candles. I got dizzy trying to count them. On the far side, thirty feet from the table, was a white marble fireplace with a fine cherry clock above it. Suits of armor, shields, and busts of various luminaries, most of them foreign to me, were spread across the room.

To say the least, it was all overwhelming to a band of pilgrims who slept in tents, ate on rocks by an open fire, and on a good night complimented the chef that the porcupine meat wasn’t as stringy as usual.