trickling with sweat, and their long floating hair. The sharp sound of the pickaxes striking the rock—the splash of the stones in the water—the voices of the miners—their shrill cries, and wheezy breathings, seemed at times to shake the very vault. The red dish glare of the candles reflected in the water—the dust—the vapor, which filled the place like a mist—the coppery veins which ran in all directions through the rock, all combined to increase the singularity of the spectacle.
After spending there a considerable time, I resolved to make my way to a lower gallery, at the end of which I was to meet the old miner. The ascent I was to make from that place did not seem so perilous as I at first imagined, and I should, besides, be saved going over the same ground. I requested one of the miners to conduct me to this place, as I feared to lose my way in the maze, the paths crossing and recrossing each other in all directions. I began, also, to feel the necessity of breathing a purer air, and followed my new guide with pleasure.
I went down an inclined plane so long that the joints of my legs knocked together, and arrived at last, worn out and breathless, at the extremity of the last gallery, which formed a right angle with the grand shaft, whose black mouth yawned right at my feet. This shaft was carried down still lower. The miner had not yet arrived. To a solitary workman, who seemed to have been forgotten in these vast catacombs, was assigned a most dangerous and frightful task. Close at hand, another shaft full of water was in process of being slowly emptied by means of an enormous bag of ox-hide attached to the cable of the malacate. When full, it was raised by means of the invisible
