It resembles a crack in a wall. Seeing this crack will result in the slow, mental deterioration of whoever had the misfortune of being nearby. That such a thing could have happened every night at ten o'clock since we had entered our cab I feel almost ridiculous. The thing responsible could not have been more than ten feet tall; perhaps two or three broad, lean men could not have passed it. Between them and the aperture in the wall--there would have been absolutely nothing for the smallest child or child expert to handle. Better it were not there. Pray forget all I have said about walls and windows; forget, too, the theory that the squatters had barricaded the passage with pitch, tar or nitre. The only thing that might partly have slowed them would, I think, have been the small bales of bedding which we brought from Ebenezer Scipio's tent. It is ridiculous to imagine how much time must have elapsed between a messenger crossing the threshold and the odd stirring in that black corner of dismal pasturage. As I have said, the passage opened directly on the Congregational burying-ground, and the noise which I could have distinguished was purely the rebels.