I dreamed that I was wandering along a narrow street of vast length,
upon either hand of which was an unbroken line of high straight
houses, their walls and doors resembling those of a prison. The
atmosphere was dense and obscure, and the time seemed that of twilight;
in the narrow line of sky visible far overhead between the two rows
of house-roofs, I could not discern sun, moon, or stars, or color
of any kind. All was grey, impenetrable, and dim. Underfoot, between
the paving-stones of the street, grass was springing. Nowhere was
the least sign of life: the place seemed utterly deserted. I stood
alone in the midst of profound silence and desolation. Silence?
No! As I listened, there came to my ears from all sides, dully
at first and almost imperceptibly, a low creeping sound like subdued
moaning; a sound that never ceased, and that was so native to the
place, I had at first been unaware of it. But now I clearly gathered
in the sound and recognised it as expressive of the intensest physical
suffering. Looking steadfastly towards one of the houses from which
the most distinct of these sounds issued, I perceived a stream of
blood slowly oozing out from beneath the door and trickling down
into the street, staining the tufts of grass red here and there,
as it wound its way towards me. I glanced up and saw that the glass
in the closed and barred windows of the house was flecked and splashed
with the same horrible dye.

"Some one has been murdered in this place!" I cried, and flew towards
the door. Then, for the first time, I perceived that the door had
neither lock nor handle on the outside, but could be opened only