closed.

Then, after half lifting one to make sure it was full, we went on our
knees and, with the blade of a small knife which I carried, I prepared
to stave in the bung-hole.

At that moment, I seemed to hear, coming from very far, a sort of
monotonous chant which I knew well, from often hearing it in the
streets of Paris:

"Barrels! ... Barrels! ... Any barrels to sell?"

My hand desisted from its work. M. de Chagny had also heard. He said:

"That's funny! It sounds as if the barrel were singing!"

The song was renewed, farther away:

"Barrels! ... Barrels! ... Any barrels to sell? ..."

"Oh, I swear," said the viscount, "that the tune dies away in the
barrel! ..."

We stood up and went to look behind the barrel.

"It's inside," said M. de Chagny, "it's inside!"

But we heard nothing there and were driven to accuse the bad condition
of our senses. And we returned to the bung-hole. M. de Chagny put his
two hands together underneath it and, with a last effort, I burst the
bung.

"What's this?" cried the viscount. "This isn't water!"

The viscount put his two full hands close to my lantern ... I stooped
to look ... and at once threw away the lantern with such violence that
it broke and went out, leaving us in utter darkness.

What I had seen in M. de Chagny's hands ... was gun-powder!

[1] It is very natural that, at the time when the Persian was writing,
he should take so many precautions against any spirit of incredulity on
the part of those who were likely to read his narrative. Nowadays,
when we have all seen this sort of room, his precautions would be
superfluous.

Chapter XXV The Scorpion or the Grasshopper: Which?

THE PERSIAN'S NARRATIVE CONCLUDED

The discovery flung us into a state of alarm that made us forget all
our past and present sufferings. We now knew all that the monster
meant to convey when he said to Christine Daae:

"Yes or no! If your answer is no, everybody will be dead AND BURIED!"

Yes, buried under the ruins of the Paris Grand Opera!

The monster had given her until eleven o'clock in the evening. He had
chosen his time well. There would be many people, many "members of the
human race," up there, in the resplendent theater. What finer retinue
could be expected for his funeral? He would go down to the tomb
escorted by the whitest shoulders in the world, decked with the richest
jewels.

Eleven o'clock to-morrow evening!

We were all to be b