Shaking this off with a gasp and a struggle, I
      uplifted myself upon the pillows, and, peering earnestly within
      the intense darkness of the chamber, harkened—I know not why,
      except that an instinctive spirit prompted me—to certain low and
      indefinite sounds which came, through the pauses of the storm, at
      long intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an intense
      sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on my
      clothes with haste (for I felt that I should sleep no more during
      the night), and endeavored to arouse myself from the pitiable
      condition into which I had fallen, by pacing rapidly to and fro
      through the apartment. I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step on an
      adjoining staircase arrested my attention. I presently recognised
      it as that of Usher. In an instant afterward he rapped, with a
      gentle touch, at my door, and entered, bearing a lamp. His
      countenance was, as usual, cadaverously wan—but, moreover, there
      was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes—an evidently restrained
      _hysteria_ in his whole demeanor. His air appalled me—but
      anything was preferable to the solitude which I had so long
      endured, and I even welcomed his presence as a relief. “And you have not seen it?” he said abruptly, after having stared
      about him for some moments in silence—“you have not then seen
      it?—but, stay! you shall.” Thus speaking, and having carefully
      shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the casements, and threw it
      freely open to the storm. The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us from our
      feet. It was, indeed, a tempestuous yet sternly beautiful night,
      and one wildly singular in its terror and its beauty. A whirlwind
      had apparently collected its force in our vicinity; for there
      were frequent and violent alterations in the direction of the
      wind; and the exceeding density of the clouds (which hung so low
      as to press upon the turrets of the house) did not prevent our
      perceiving the life-like velocity with which they flew careering
      from all points against each other, without passing away into the
      distance. I say that even their exceeding density did not prevent
      our perceiving this—yet we had no glimpse of the moon or
      stars—nor was there any flashing forth of the lightning. But the
      under surfaces of the huge masses of agitated vapor, as well as
      all terrestrial objects immediately around us, were glowing in
      the unnatural light of a faintly luminous and distinctly visible
      gaseous exhalation which hung about and enshrouded the mansion. “You must not—you shall not behold this!” said I, shudderingly,
      to Usher, as I led him, with a gentle violence, from the window
      to a seat. “These appearances, which bewilder you, are merely
      electrical phenomena not uncommon—or it may be that they have
      their ghastly origin in the rank miasma of the tarn. Let us close
      this casement;—the air is chilling and dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your favorite romances. I will read, and you shall
      listen;—and so we will pass away this terrible night together.”

      The antique volume which I had taken up was the “Mad Trist” of
      Sir Launcelot Canning; but I had called it a favorite of Usher’s
      more in sad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there is little
      in its uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could have had
      interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my friend. It
      was, however, the only book immediately at hand; and I indulged a
      vague hope that the excitement which now agitated the
      hypochondriac, might find relief (for the history of mental
      disorder is full of similar anomalies) even in the extremeness of
      the folly which I should read. Could I have judged, indeed, by
      the wild overstrained air of vivacity with which he harkened, or
      apparently harkened, to the words of the tale, I might well have
      congratulated myself upon the success of my design. I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where
      Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for
      peaceable admission into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to
      make good an entrance by force. Here, it will be remembered, the
      words of the narrative run thus:

      “And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who was
      now mighty withal, on account of the powerfulness of the wine
      which he had drunken, waited no longer to hold parley with the
      hermit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful turn,
      but, feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and fearing the rising
      of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright, and, with blows, made
      quickly room in the plankings of the door for his gauntleted
      hand; and now pulling therewith sturdily, he so cracked, and
      ripped, and tore all asunder, that the noise of the dry and
      hollow-sounding wood alarummed and reverberated throughout the
      forest.”

      At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a moment,
      paused; for it appeared to me (although I at once concluded that
      my excited fancy had deceived me)—it appeared to me that, from
      some very remote portion of the mansion, there came,
      indistinctly, to my ears, what might have been, in its exact
      similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled and dull one
      certainly) of the very cracking and ripping sound which Sir
      Launcelot had so particularly described. It was, beyond doubt,
      the coincidence alone which had arrested my attention; for, amid
      the rattling of the sashes of the casements, and the ordinary
      commingled noises of the still increasing storm, the sound, in
      itself, had nothing, surely, which should have interested or
      disturbed me.