- end_line
- 10305
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.921Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 10225
- text
- "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 any body 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 Oronoco
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 traveler."
"Hark, what is that?" said Delly, "that keen iron-ringing sound? It
passed us just now."
"The keen traveler," said Pierre, "he has steel plates to his
boot-heels;--some tender-souled elder son, I suppose."
"Pierre," said Isabel, "this silence is unnatural, is fearful. The
forests are never so still."
"Because brick and mortar have deeper secrets than wood or fell, sweet
Isabel. But here we turn again; now if I guess right, two more turns
will bring us to the door. Courage, all will be well; doubtless he has
prepared a famous supper. Courage, Isabel. Come, shall it be tea or
coffee? Some bread, or crisp toast? We'll have eggs, too; and some cold
chicken, perhaps."--Then muttering to himself--"I hope not that, either;
no cold collations! there's too much of that in these paving-stones
here, set out for the famishing beggars to eat. No. I won't have the
cold chicken." Then aloud--"But here we turn again; yes, just as I
thought. Ho, driver!" (thrusting his head out of the window) "to the
right! to the right! it should be on the right! the first house with a
light on the right!"
"No lights yet but the street's," answered the surly voice of the
driver.
"Stupid! he has passed it--yes, yes--he has! Ho! ho! stop; turn back.
Have you not passed lighted windows?"
"No lights but the street's," was the rough reply. "What's the number?
the number? Don't keep me beating about here all night! The number, I
say!"
"I do not know it," returned Pierre; "but I well know the house; you
must have passed it, I repeat. You must turn back. Surely you have
passed lighted windows?"
"Then them lights must burn black; there's no lighted windows in the
street; I knows the city; old maids lives here, and they are all to bed;
rest is warehouses."
"Will you stop the coach, or not?" cried Pierre, now incensed at his
surliness in continuing to drive on.
"I obeys orders: the first house with a light; and 'cording to my
reck'ning--though to be sure, I don't know nothing of the city where I
was born and bred all my life--no, I knows nothing at all about
it--'cording to my reck'ning, the first light in this here street will
be the watch-house of the ward--yes, there it is--all right! cheap
lodgings ye've engaged--nothing to pay, and wictuals in."
- title
- Chunk 2