gne demons with strange faces,--I
should say "fizzes,"--moving about noiselessly: the only sound is
that of the occasional irrepressible effervescence of youth, or a
pop from a recalcitrant cork in a distant cell, and, in a mysterious
all-pervading way, an accompaniment of hammering. The lights and awful
shadows of the scene recall to my mind CRUIKSHANK's grim illustrations
to AINSWORTH's _Tower of London_. If these wild figures under this
Central Stalactited Dome, these fearsome Troglodytes, were suddenly to
join hands and dance round us, keeping a "Witches' Sabbath," I should
not feel surprised. I might be considerably alarmed; but surprised,
no. It would be in keeping with the scene. Only where's the music?
Surely a Special Champagne Dance ought to be supplied by the orchestra
of "The Monday Pops."

Here DAUBINET, being tired, sits. He has seen it all before. "He knows
his way," explains M. VESQUIER, "and we shall meet him again above."
This sounds funereal, but, as an expression of Christian sentiment,
hopeful.

DAUBINET, mopping his forehead, mutters something, in Russian I
believe, which sounds like "_Preama! Pascarry! da padadidi_," which
he is perhaps rendering into English when he says, "Go straight on! Be
quick! All r-r-r-right!"

Suddenly finding myself the only follower of our guide, I begin to
realise to its full extent the loss of one who, up to now, has been my
companion. I realise this one fact among others, but quite sufficient
of itself, namely, that if I once lose sight of M. VESQUIER in this
maze of caverns down in the depths below, I shall have the utmost
difficulty in ever coming up to the surface again. Now we are walking
on a line of rails. All at once I lose sight of M. VESQUIER. He must
have turned off to the right or left--_which?_--and I shall see his
light in the distance when I reach the opening into the right, or
left, passage.... What's that? A shriek? a howl? a flash!--"_He la
bas_!" and at a rapid pace out of the blackest darkness emerge two
wine-demons on a trolly. I have just time to reduce myself to the
smallest possible compass against the barrels, when the wine-demons
brandishing a small torch-light have whizzed past,--"Ho! Ho!"--goblin
laughter in the distance, as heard in _Rip Van Winkle_, and described
in _Gabriel Grub_--"Ho! Ho!"--and before I have recovered myself, they
have vanished into outer and blacker darkness, and all around me the
gloom is gloomier than ever.

[Il