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.
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