That, I was told, was the gate of the new gaol on fire. That the
prisoners in it had been set free; that-- But why speak of what
too many here recollect but too well? The fog rolled slowly
upward. Dark figures, even at that great distance, were flitting
to and fro across what seemed the mouth of the pit. The flame
increased--multiplied--at one point after another; till by ten
o'clock that night I seemed to be looking down upon Dante's
Inferno, and to hear the multitudinous moan and wail of the lost
spirits surging to and fro amid that sea of fire.

Right behind Brandon Hill--how can I ever forget it?--rose the
great central mass of fire; till the little mound seemed converted
into a volcano, from the peak of which the flame streamed up, not
red alone, but, delicately green and blue, pale rose and pearly
white, while crimson sparks leapt and fell again in the midst of
that rainbow, not of hope, but of despair; and dull explosions
down below mingled with the roar of the mob, and the infernal hiss
and crackle of the flame.

Higher and higher the fog was scorched and shrivelled upward by
the fierce heat below, glowing through and through with red
reflected glare, till it arched itself into one vast dome of red-
hot iron, fit roof for all the madness down below--and beneath it,
miles away, I could see the lonely tower of Dundie shining red;--
the symbol of the old faith, looking down in stately wonder and
sorrow upon the fearful birth-throes of a new age. Yes.--Why did
I say just now despair? I was wrong. Birth-throes, and not death
pangs, those horrors were. Else they would have no place in my
discourse; no place, indeed, in my mind. Why talk over the signs