At that moment, I seemed to hear, coming from very far, a sort of
monotonous chant which I knew well, from often hearing it in the
streets of Paris: "Barrels! ... Barrels! ... Any barrels to sell?"
My hand desisted from its work. M. de Chagny had also heard. He said: "That's funny! It sounds as if the barrel were singing!"
The song was renewed, farther away: "Barrels! ... Barrels! ... Any barrels to sell? ..."
"Oh, I swear," said the viscount, "that the tune dies away in the
barrel! ..."
We stood up and went to look behind the barrel.
"It's inside," said M. de Chagny, "it's inside!"
But we heard nothing there and were driven to accuse the bad condition
of our senses. And we returned to the bung-hole. M. de Chagny put his
two hands together underneath it and, with a last effort, I burst the
bung.
"What's this?" cried the viscount. "This isn't water!"
The viscount put his two full hands close to my lantern ... I stooped
to look ... and at once threw away the lantern with such violence that
it broke and went out, leaving us in utter darkness.
What I had seen in M. de Chagny's hands ... was gun-powder!
[1] It is very natural that, at the time when the Persian was writing,
he should take so many precautions against any spirit of incredulity on
the part of those who were likely to read his narrative. Nowadays,
when we have all seen this sort of room, his precautions would be
superfluous.