“It’s about forty pounds. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. God gives us an equal chance; but we make ourselves. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. Well-balanced, sane, wasn’t I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I’m pretty near being one now, and it’s her fault.
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