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Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone,

past hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights

of steps, and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick,

more like dry waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey,

and Jacques Three, linked hand and arm, went with all the speed

they could make. Here and there, especially at first, the

inundation started on them and swept by; but when they had done

descending, and were winding and climbing up a tower, they were

alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls and

arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only

audible to them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of

which they had come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.

The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock,

swung the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their

heads and passed in:

"One hundred and five, North Tower!"