* * * * * *
The jerky beat of the engine grows louder, and an increasing heat
surrounds us. The overcharged air of the trench vibrates more and
more as we go forward. The engine's jarring note soon hammers our
ears and shakes us through. Still it gets hotter; it is like some
great animal breathing in our faces. The buried trench seems to be
leading us down and down into the tumult of some infernal workshop,
whose dark-red glow is sketching out our huge and curving shadows in
purple on the walls.
In a diabolical crescendo of din, of hot wind and of lights, we flow
deafened towards the furnace. One would think that the engine itself
was hurling itself through the tunnel to meet us, like a frantic
motor-cyclist drawing dizzily near with his headlight and
destruction.
Scorched and half blinded, we pass in front of the red furnace and
the black engine, whose flywheel roars like a hurricane, and we have
hardly time to make out the movements of men around it. We shut our
eyes, choked by the contact of this glaring white-hot breath.
Now, the noise and the heat are raging behind us and growing
feebler, and my neighbor mutters in his beard, "And that idiot that
said my lamp would be seen!"
And here is the free air! The sky is a very dark blue, of the same
color as the earth and little lighter. The rain becomes worse and
worse, and walking is laborious in the heavy slime. The whole boot
sinks in, and it is a labor of acute pain to withdraw the foot every
time.
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