The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,—the cellar, just referred to,—was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female, assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice. Martin was the only person to directly address Lucy again, trying to reassure her that “real vampires melt in direct sunlight. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed. We needn’t try and give ourselves airs. I can’t but feel it’s an undesirable complication to drag in the Charvills at this point.
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