I cried, “must I die?” “Nay,” said Nightmare, “we will spare thee this time.”  “But an’t please you,” said I, “your brother Death has never spared anyone yet who came beneath his stroke—­he who wrestled with the Lord of Life himself, though it was little he gained by that contest.”  Nightmare, at that word, rose up angrily and departed.  “Come along,” cried Sleep, “thou wilt never repent of thy journey.”  “Well,” said I, “may there never be night in Sleepton, and may Nightmare never have rest save on an awl’s point if ye bring me not back where ye found me.”

Then away we went over hills and through forests, across seas and valleys, over castles and towers, rivers and rocks, and where should we alight but at one of the gates of the daughters of Belial, at the rear of the City of Destruction, where I noticed that the three gateways of Destruction contracted into one at the back, and opened upon the same place—­a murky, vaporous, pestilent place, full of noisome mists, and terrible lowering clouds.  “Prithee, good sir,” asked I, “what place be this?” “The chambers of Death,” replied Sleep.  And no sooner had I asked than I could hear some wailing, groaning, and sighing; some deliriously muttering to themselves or feebly moaning, others in great travail, and with all the signs of man’s departure from life; and, now and then, would one give a long-drawn gasp, and lapse into silence.  At that moment, I heard a key being turned in a lock, and at the noise I looked around for the door, and gazing steadfastly, perceived thousands upon thousands of doors, seemingly afar off but really close at hand.  “Please, Master Sleep, where do these doors open upon?” asked I.  “Upon the land of Oblivion,” was the answer, “an extensive domain {44a} under the sceptre of my brother Death, and this great rampart is the boundary of vast Eternity.”  By this I could see that there was a little death-imp at every door, each one bearing arms, and a name different from that of his fellows; though it was evident that they, one and all, were the ministers of the same king.  Nevertheless they were continually quarrelling about the sick; one would snatch the patient to take him as a gift through his own door, while another strove to take him through his.

On our approach, I observed that over each door the name of the Death who kept it was written, and also that at each door were an hundred various things left all of a heap, showing plainly that those who went through were in haste.  Over one door I saw “Hunger,” and yet on the floor close by were full purses, and bags, and brass-nailed trunks.  “This is the Porch of Misers,” said Sleep.  “Whom do those rags belong to?” “To the misers, mostly,” he replied, “but there are some which belong to idlers, gossipmongers and others, who, poor in everything except in spirit, preferred to die of hunger rather than ask for help.”  Next door was Death-by-Cold, and when I came opposite him I could hear much shuddering and shivering, and