The foulness which had struck us when we first pushed open the door and which hung about Pilgrim's shop was much stronger now, borne on gusts of cold air. Will wrapped his scarf over his face. We reached the bottom where our flickering candles showed a long, low cellar (Will, who is quite six feet tall, had to duck his head, and I could touch the roof easily) stretching in both directions - under Pilgrim's shop, but also next door, under the gaff and theatre, for the holes in the floor above were dimly visible where the moonlight shone through them. It was a cellar which, at one time, long ago, must have served a single large house, and now still ran, uninterrupted, beneath two. 'This accounts for the dreadful stink, then,' whispered Trim. 'Nasty and damp. It's a wonder your friend didn't get the cholera.' 'And rats, too,' said Will who, I know, has a horror of the creatures. 'There must be hundreds of them down here.' We were unwilling to stray far from the safety of the steps, taking in the scene before us and adjusting to the near darkness.
