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seemed to him as if the rocks grew over his
head, always higher and higher: the tun made
a slight swinging, but he felt it, like a fall –
a fall in sleep, that shock in the blood. Did
it go quicker downwards, or was it going up
again? He could not distinguish by the
sensation.
The tun touched the ground, or rather the
snow – the dirty trodden, eternal snow, down to
which no sunbeam reaches, which no summer
warmth from above ever melts. A hollow
sound was heard from within the dark, yawning
cavern, and a thick vapour rolled out into the
cold air. The stranger entered the dark halls;
there seemed to be a crashing above him: the
fire burned; the furnaces roared; the beating
of hammers sounded; the watery damps dripped
down – and he again entered the tun, which was
hoven up in the air. He sat with closed eyes,
but giddiness breathed on his head, and on his
breast; his inwardly-turned eye measured the
giddy depth through the tun: “It is appalling,”
said he.
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