"'Of a sudden, in what I thought was night, but which must have been midday, I hear a sound as of hinges that creak and strain. It comes from the _Buco della Fame_; and I can hear, too, but dimly, what I take to be the murmur of voices in the room it leads to. I rise from the straw I lie on, and move as best I may, for I am free to move about only slowly, because my right hand is manacled to my left foot, and from stiffness and weakness, towards the opening of the hole in the low arch above me. I can touch its edge with my hand. I look up through the long round tube, and can see its length now by the size of the opening at the top. It may be, as I reckon it, at least twenty _bracchie_ from the ground I stand on. "'As I gaze, a little dazzled by the light, I hear plainly the voices above me of those who are merry with the banquet. And then a face looks down and darkens the opening for a moment; but it is only like a dark spot, and my eyes are thwarted by the change from dark to light, so that I cannot guess if it be man or woman. Then I hear a laugh from above that I compare in my heart to the laugh a Saint in Heaven might give as he looks down a narrow shaft that leads to Hell, and rejoices in his freedom and the great Justice of God. But I myself am nowise better off than the sinners, heretics and Jews that are consumed in fires below, yet die not. Then, as I think of this, down comes a shower of what seems to me good kitchen stuff. Whereof I secure a piece of turkey for myself, and of capon for the very old man; but he shall have his choice, if, indeed, he can eat either. Then come other prisoners for their share, from afar off in the crypt, one of whom I had never seen, so dark was his corner. But I had heard him moan and mutter. Only, before he comes with the others I have time to choose somewhat else from the mess, always sharing as I think fairly. And as I do this I am taken aback by a sheet of written paper that has fluttered down the shaft. And I have caught it, and the trap above closes with a clang, and the voices die above, and the darkness has come again, and the silence. "'Know, _Illustrissima_, that the eyesight that lives long in darkness may grow to be so keen that not only the outline of the prisoner's hand that he holds before him may be seen by him, but even the seams and lines thereon, by which may be known the story of his life and the length of his days. But I had not yet come to that perfection of vision, and could read nought of the paper in my own place; for all that the crypt was then at its brightest, it being late midday, and the gleam from the slot at the far end strong enough for me to see dimly the face of the old man as I held out to him in turn the turkey and the capon. But he would none of either, and hardly noted what I did, as one in a maze. So in the end I leave him and go nearer the light, to read what I may.