Date, or the New Scott-land.”] A strange light descends from somewhere above, producing a blueish atmospheric effect.  Weird, very.  We are now in the Wine Demon’s Cave.  More pantomimic effects:  big demons and little demons at work everywhere:  champagne 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.

[Illustration]