put on; it is the locking, and bolting, and barring of windows and doors; the town's-people are going to their rest.'
'Please God they may find it!' sighed Delly.
'They lock and bar out, then, when they rest, do they, Pierre?' said Isabel.
'Yes, and you were thinking that does not bode well for the welcome I spoke of.'
'Thou read'st all my soul; yes, I was thinking of that. But whither lead these long, narrow, dismal side-glooms we pass every now and then? What are they? They seem terribly still. I see scarce anybody in them;—there's another, now. See how haggardly look its criss-cross, far-separate lamps.—What are these side-glooms, dear Pierre; whither lead they?'
'They are the thin tributaries, sweet Isabel, to the great Orinoco thoroughfare we are in; and like true tributaries, they come from the far-hidden places; from under dark beetling secrecies of mortar and stone; through the long marsh-grasses of villainy, and by many a transplanted bough-beam, where the wretched have hung.'
'I know nothing of these things, Pierre. But I like not the town. Think'st thou, Pierre, the time will ever come when all the earth shall be paved?'
'Thank God, that never can be!'
'These silent side-glooms are horrible;—look! Methinks, not for the world would I turn into one.'
That moment the nigh fore-wheel sharply grated under the body of the coach.
'Courage!' cried Pierre, 'we are in it!—Not so very solitary either; here comes a traveller.'
'Hark, what is that?' said Delly, 'that keen iron-ringing sound? It passed us just now.'
'The keen traveller,' said Pierre, 'he has steel plates
