This door must open inwards, and it is through here, no doubt, that I was carried in.
I place my ear to the door, but not a sound can be heard.

The silence is as profound as the obscurity--a strange silence that is only broken by the sonorousness of the metallic floor when I move about.

None of the dull noises usually to be heard on board a ship is perceptible, not even the rippling of the water along the hull.

Nor is there the slightest movement to be felt; yet, in the estuary of the Neuse, the current is always strong enough, to cause a marked oscillation to any vessel.
But does the compartment in which I am confined, really belong to a ship?
How do I know that I am afloat on the Neuse, though I was conveyed a short distance in a boat?
Might not the latter, instead of heading for a ship in waiting for it, opposite Healthful House, have been rowed to a point further down the river?
In this case is it not possible that I was carried into the collar of a house?
This would explain the complete immobility of the compartment.

It is true that the walls are of bolted plates, and that there is a vague smell of salt water, that odor _sui generis_ which generally pervades the interior of a ship, and which there is no mistaking.
An interval, which I estimate at about four hours, must have passed since my incarceration.