A Tale of Two Cities

Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single
drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers.  Slight
displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded.  Flashing
weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work
at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,
execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the
furious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the
single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great
towers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly
hot by the service of Four fierce hours.

A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly
perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly
the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the
wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer
walls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!

So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even
to draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had
been struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in
the outer courtyard of the Bastille.  There, against an angle of a
wall, he made a struggle to look about him.  Jacques Three was nearly
at his side; Madame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was
visible in the inner distance, and her knife was in her hand.  Everywhere
was tumult, exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding
noise, yet furious dumb-show.

"The Prisoners!"

"The Records!"

"The secret cells!"

"The instruments of torture!"

"The Prisoners!"

Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, "The Prisoners!"
was the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were
an eternity of people, as well as of time and space.  When the foremost
billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and
threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained
undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of
these men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his hand--
separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the wall.

"Show me the North Tower!" said Defarge.  "Quick!"

"I will faithfully," replied the man, "if you will come with me.  But
there is no one there."

"What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?"
asked Defarge.  "Quick!"

"The meaning, monsieur?"

"Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity?  Or do you mean that
I shall strike you dead?"

"Kill him!" croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.

"Monsieur, it is a cell."

"Show it me!"

"Pass this way, then."

Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently
disappointed by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise
bloodshed, held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's.  Their
three heads had been close together during this brief discourse, and
it had been as much as they could do to hear one another, even then:
so tremendous was the noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into
the Fortress, and its inundation of the courts and passages and
staircases.  All around outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep,
hoarse roar, from which, occasionally, some partial shouts of tumult
broke and leaped into the air like spray.

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!"

There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,
with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by
stooping low and looking up.  There was a small chimney, heavily barred
across, a few feet within.  There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes