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CHAPTER IX. A NIGHT IN THE FORTRESS OF FEAR.
I SHOULD like, my young friends, to give you a horrible—an alarming—a terrific description of the Fortress of Fear. The subject is a tempting one enough, but I am the slave of truth, and moreover, imagination has built it after such a fashion that every one sees it under a different aspect. I can, however, tell you a little about it.
The Fortress of Fear is only seen at night, and scarcely can its black outline be made out against the black sky. If the moon shows herself, it is only with an evil purpose to bring out more clearly some hideous combination of lines. The stones are leperous, and the snakes that dwell among them seem like worms that feed on them. Life is represented there by the mere refuse of creation—vultures, adders, centipedes, rats, scorpions, toads, woodlice, and owls; and yet one could not help wondering how even such foul broods as these could inhabit such a place. Those who have had the misfortune to behold this ominous sight perceive only an irregular line of towers, half fallen into ruins, and resembling nothing so much as the fangs of some ogress seven hundred years old. The Fortress of Fear is the oldest of all fortresses; that it still stands is a miracle, for a breath can overthrow it;—and yet it is eternal. Each of us reckons an hour in his life in which it has appeared to him; and even the bravest of us must confess to having paid it a visit.