And every morning, when the day
broke, I went boldly into the
chamber, and spoke courageously
to him, calling him by name in a
hearty tone, and inquiring how he
has passed the night. So you see
he would have been a very
profound old man, indeed, to
suspect that every night, just at
twelve, I looked in upon him while
he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more
than usually cautious in opening
the door. A watch's minute hand
moves more quickly than did
mine. Never before that night had
I felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could
scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was,
opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my
secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and
perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if
startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room
was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters
were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that
he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on
steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my
thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up
in bed, crying out --"Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move
a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was
still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night
after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of
mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it
was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul
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