The militia offered little in the way of relief. 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. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. He rose deliberately to his feet and confronted them. His course had been observed by the watchman, who directed Wild which way to take.
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