Hurriedly, and with loathing, I shook off her arm.
“Can it be that such sounds please—nay, even amuse you?” I asked sternly.
She looked at me, the smile playing round her mouth still.
“When the angels in heaven hear those sounds they sigh and tremble. It spoils their gladdest concert,” she said.
No further cry ensued, and our boat sailed along. I noticed that at intervals, and under each arch, a doorway was visible, and on each doorway a number was written in clear red. One imagined the cells beyond even without a glimpse.
At last she stayed before one.
“I shall not take you into all, it would be too tedious,” she said. “We shall visit one or two, and that will suffice.”
“You must know,” she continued in a clear, hard voice, “that a strict account is kept of the life of every man and woman upon the earth. We allow nothing to pass, every ill thought, every ill word, every ill deed, are all entered faithfully and truthfully. Every particular sin has its particular punishment, and as near as possible we destroy like with like.”
“And,” said I, gazing round the terrible gloomy place, “are you always perfectly fair and just in your punishments?”
“Always,” she answered, “We want them to do our work, and we punish them just sufficiently to make them do our work well.”