The Raven

The Masque of the Red Death

The Cask of Amontillado

and

The Tell Tale Heart

 
 
 
THE RAVEN

 
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
                                          Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
                                          Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;
                                          This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door--
                                          Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
                                          Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my sour within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
                                          'Tis the wind and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
                                          Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
                                          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
                                          With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpour
Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered: "Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
                                          Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
                                          Of 'Never--nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
                                          Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
                                          She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
                                          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
                                          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
                                          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
                                          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
                                          Shall be lifted--nevermore!

 
 
 
The Masque of the Red Death

by Edgar Allan Poe


 
The "Red Death" had long devastated the country.  No
pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous.  Blood was its
Avatar and its seal--the redness and the horror of blood.  There were
sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the
pores, with dissolution.  The scarlet stains upon the body and
especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which
shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. 
And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease,
were the incidents of half an hour.

But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. 
When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his
presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the
knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep
seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys.  This was an extensive
and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's own
eccentric yet august taste.  A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. 
This wall had gates of iron.  The courtiers, having entered,
brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts.  They
resolved to leave means neither of ingress nor egress to the sudden
impulses of despair or of frenzy from within.  The abbey was amply
provisioned.  With such precautions the courtiers might bid
defiance to contagion.  The external world could take care of
itself.  In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think.  The
prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure.  There were
buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers,
there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine.  All these
and security were within.  Without was the "Red Death".

It was towards the close of the fifth or sixth month of his 
seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously
abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends
at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.

It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade.  But first let me
tell of the rooms in which it was held.  These were seven--an
imperial suite.  In many palaces, however, such suites form a long
and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to
the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is
scarcely impeded.  Here the case was very different, as might have
been expected from the duke's love of the  bizarre.  The
apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced
but little more than one at a time.  There was a sharp turn at
every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect.  To
the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow
Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the
windings of the suite.  These windows were of stained glass whose
colour varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the
decorations of the chamber into which it opened.  That at the
eastern extremity was hung, for example in blue--and vividly blue
were its windows.  The second chamber was purple in its ornaments
and tapestries, and here the panes were purple.  The third was
green throughout, and so were the casements.  The fourth was
furnished and lighted with orange--the fifth with white--the sixth
with violet.  The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black
velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the
walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material
and hue.  But in this chamber only, the colour of the windows
failed to correspond with the decorations.  The panes here were
scarlet--a deep blood colour.  Now in no one of the seven
apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of
golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the
roof.  There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle
within the suite of chambers.  But in the corridors that followed
the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod,
bearing a brazier of fire, that projected its rays through the
tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room.  And thus were
produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances.  But in
the western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that 
streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes,
was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the
countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the
company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the
western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony.  Its pendulum swung to and
fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand
made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken,
there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was
clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar
a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians
of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their
performance, to harken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce
ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the
whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it
was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and
sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused
revery or meditation.  But when the echoes had fully ceased, a
light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked
at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly,
and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming
of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then,
after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and
six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another
chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and
tremulousness and meditation as before.

But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent
revel.  The tastes of the duke were peculiar.  He had a fine eye
for colours and effects.  He disregarded the  decora of mere
fashion.  His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed
with barbaric lustre.  There are some who would have thought him
mad.  His followers felt that he was not.  It was necessary to hear
and see and touch him to be  sure that he was not.

He had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of
the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great  fete; and it
was his own guiding taste which had given character to the
masqueraders.  Be sure they were grotesque.  There were much glare
and glitter and piquancy and phantasm--much of what has been since
 seen in  "Hernani".  There were arabesque figures with
unsuited limbs and appointments.  There were delirious fancies such
as the madman fashions.  There were much of the beautiful, much of
the wanton, much of the  bizarre, something of the terrible, and
not a little of that which might have excited disgust.  To and fro
in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of
dreams.  And these--the dreams--writhed in and about taking hue
from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem
as the echo of their steps.  And, anon, there strikes the ebony
clock which stands in the hall of the velvet.  And then, for a
moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the
clock.  The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand.  But the echoes
of the chime die away--they have endured but an instant--and a
light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart.  And
now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and
fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many tinted windows
through which stream the rays from the tripods.  But to the chamber
which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the
maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows
a ruddier light through the blood-coloured panes; and the blackness
of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the
sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled
peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches  their ears
who indulged in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments.

But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them
beat feverishly the heart of life.  And the revel went whirlingly
on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon
the clock.  And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the
evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy
cessation of all things as before.  But now there were twelve
strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it
happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time,
into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. 
And thus too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of
the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many
individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of
the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the  
attention of no single individual before.  And the rumour of this
new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose
at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of
disapprobation and surprise--then, finally, of terror, of horror,
and of disgust.

In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may
well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited
such sensation.  In truth the masquerade licence of the night was
nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod,
and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. 
There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be
touched without emotion.  Even with the utterly lost, to whom life
and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can
be made.  The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that
in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor
propriety existed.  The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded
from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave.  The mask which
concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance
of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had
difficulty in detecting the cheat.  And yet all this might have
been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around.  But
the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. 
His vesture was dabbled in  blood--and his broad brow, with all
the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.

When the eyes of the Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral
image (which, with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to
sustain its  role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was
seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder
either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened
with rage.

"Who dares,"--he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood
near him--"who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? 
Seize him and unmask him--that we may know whom we have to hang, at
sunrise, from the battlements!"

It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the
Prince Prospero as he uttered these words.  They rang throughout
the seven rooms loudly and clearly, for the prince was a bold and
robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his
hand.

It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group
of  pale courtiers by his side.  At first, as he spoke,
there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction
of the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now,
with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the
speaker.  But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad
assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were
found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he
passed within a yard of the prince's person; and, while the vast
assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the
rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the
same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the
first, through the blue chamber to the purple--through the purple
to the green--through the green to the orange--through this again
to the white--and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement
had been made to arrest him.  It was then, however, that the Prince
Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary
cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none
followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon
all.  He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid
impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure,
when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet
apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer.  There was
a sharp cry--and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet,
upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the
Prince Prospero.  Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a
throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black
apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect
and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in
unutterable horror at finding the grave cerements and corpse-like
mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by
any tangible form.

And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death.  He
had come like a thief in the night.  And one by one dropped the
revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each
in the despairing posture of his fall.  And the life of the ebony
clock went out with that of the last of the gay.  And the flames of
the tripods expired.  And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held
illimitable dominion over all.

 
 
The Cask of Amontillado

by Edgar Allan Poe


 
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best
could, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge.  You, who
so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that
I gave utterance to a threat.   At length I would be avenged;
this was a point definitely settled--but the very definitiveness
with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk.  I must not
only punish, but punish with impunity.  A wrong is unredressed when
retribution overtakes its redresser.  It is equally unredressed
when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has
done the wrong.

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I
given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will.  I continued, as was
my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my
smile  now was at the thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point--this Fortunato--although in other regards
he was a man to be respected and even feared.  He prided himself on
his connoisseurship in wine.  Few Italians have the true virtuoso
spirit.  For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the
time and opportunity-- to practise imposture upon the British and
Austrian  millionaires.  In painting and gemmary, Fortunato,
like his countrymen, was a quack-- but in the matter of old wines he
was sincere.  In this respect I did not differ from him
materially: I was skillful in the Italian vintages myself, and
bought largely whenever I could.

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of
the carnival season, that I encountered my friend.  He accosted me
with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much.  The man wore
motley.  He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his
head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells.  I was so pleased
to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his
hand.

I said to him--"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met.  How
remarkably well you are looking to-day!  But I have received a pipe
of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."

"How?" said he.  "Amontillado?  A pipe?  Impossible!  And in
the middle of the carnival!" 

"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay
the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. 
You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."

"Amontillado!"

"I have my doubts."

"Amontillado!"

"And I must satisfy them."

"Amontillado!"

"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi.  If any one
has a critical turn, it is he.  He will tell me--"

"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."

"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for
your own."

"Come, let us go."

"Whither?"

"To your vaults."

"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature.  I
perceive you have an engagement.  Luchesi--"

"I have no engagement;--come."

"My friend, no.  It is not the engagement, but the severe cold
with which I perceive you are afflicted.  The vaults are
insufferably damp.  They are encrusted with nitre."

"Let us go, nevertheless.  The cold is merely nothing. 
Amontillado!  You have been imposed upon.  And as for Luchesi, he
cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm.
Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a  roquelaire
closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make
merry in honour of the time.  I had told them that I should not
return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to
stir from the house.  These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to
insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my
back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to
Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway
that led into the vaults.  I passed down a long and winding
staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We
came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on
the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap
jingled as he strode.

"The pipe," said he.

"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work
which gleams from these cavern walls."

He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy
orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.

"Nitre?" he asked, at length.

"Nitre," I replied.  "How long have you had that cough?"

"Ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh!
ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!"

My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.

"It is nothing," he said, at last.

"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health
is precious.  You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are
happy, as once I was.  You are a man to be missed.  For me it is no
matter.  We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be
responsible.  Besides, there is Luchesi--"

"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not
kill me.  I shall not die of a cough."

"True--true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of
alarming you unnecessarily--but you should use all proper caution. 
A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a
long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.

He raised it to his lips with a leer.  He paused and nodded to
me familiarly, while his bells jingled.

"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."

"And I to your long life."

He again took my arm, and we proceeded.

"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."

"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous
family."

"I forget your arms."

"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a
serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel."

"And the motto?"

" Nemo me impune lacessit."

"Good!" he said.

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled.  My own
fancy grew warm with the Medoc.  We had passed through walls
of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into
the inmost recesses of catacombs.  I paused again, and this time I
made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases.  It hangs like moss
upon the vaults.  We are below the river's bed.  The drops of
moisture trickle among the bones.  Come, we will go back ere it is
too late.  Your cough--"

"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on.  But first, another
draught of the Medoc."

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave.  He emptied it
at a breath.  His eyes flashed with a fierce light.  He laughed and
threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.

I looked at him in surprise.  He repeated the movement--a
grotesque one.

"You do not comprehend?" he said.

"Not I," I replied.

"Then you are not of the brotherhood."

"How?"

"You are not of the masons."

"Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes."

"You?  Impossible!  A mason?"

"A mason," I replied.

"A sign," he said, "a sign."

"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of
my  roquelaire.

"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces.  "But let us
proceed to the Amontillado."

"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and
again offering him my arm.  He leaned upon it heavily.  We continued
our route in search of the Amontillado.  We passed through a range
of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived
at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused
our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another
less spacious.  Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled
to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of
Paris.  Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in
this manner.  From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down,
and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound
of some size.  Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of
the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth
about four feet in width three, in height six or seven.  It seemed
to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but
formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of
the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their
circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch,
endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess.  Its termination
the feeble light did not enable us to see.

"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado.  As for
Luchesi--"

"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped
unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels.  In
an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding
his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered.  A
moment more and I had fettered him to the granite.  In its surface
were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet,
horizontally.  From one of these depended a short chain, from the
other a padlock.  Throwing the links about his waist, it was but
the work of a few seconds to secure it.  He was too much astounded
to resist.  Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.

"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help
feeling the nitre.  Indeed, it is  very damp.  Once more let me
 implore you to return.  No?  Then I must positively leave you. 
But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."

"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered
from his astonishment.

"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones
of which I have before spoken.  Throwing them aside, I soon un- 
covered a quantity of building stone and mortar.  With these
materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall
up the entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered
that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. 
The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from
the depth of the recess.  It was  not the cry of a drunken man. 
There was then a long and obstinate silence.  I laid the second
tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious
vibrations of the chain.  The noise lasted for several minutes,
during which, that I might hearken to it with the more
satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. 
When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and
finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh
tier.  The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast.  I
again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw
a few feeble rays upon the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly
from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently
back.  For a brief moment I hesitated-- I trembled.  Unsheathing my
rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought
of an instant reassured me.  I placed my hand upon the solid fabric
of the catacombs, and felt satisfied.  I reapproached the wall; I
replied to the yells of him who clamoured.  I re-echoed-- I aided--
I surpassed them in volume and in strength.  I did this, and the
clamourer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close.  I
had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier.  I had
finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but
a single stone to be fitted and plastered in.  I struggled with its
weight; I placed it partially in its destined position.  But now
there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs
upon my head.  It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had
difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato.  The
voice said--

"Ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--a very good joke indeed--an
excellent jest.  We shall have many a rich laugh about it at the
palazzo--he! he! he!--over our wine--he! he! he!"

"The Amontillado!" I said. 

"He! he! he!--he! he! he!--yes, the Amontillado.  But is it
not getting late?  Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the
Lady Fortunato and the rest?  Let us be gone."

"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."

" For the love of God, Montresor!"

"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply.  I grew impatient.
I called aloud--

"Fortunato!"

No answer.  I called again--

"Fortunato--"

No answer still.  I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture
and let it fall within.  There came forth in reply only a jingling
of the bells.  My heart grew sick on account of the dampness of
the catacombs.  I hastened to make an end of my labour.  I forced
the last stone into its position; I plastered it up.  Against the
new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones.  For the half
of a century no mortal has disturbed them.   In pace requiescat!



THE TELL-TALE HEART.

TRUE!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had 
sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the 
heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly 
I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object 
there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For 
his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a 
film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take 
the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how 
wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to 
the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his 
door and opened it—oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, 
all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how 
cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It 
took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! 
would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern 
cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray 
fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye 
always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. 
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 when overcharged with awe. I 
knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, 
deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man 
felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight 
noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy 
them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself—"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney—it is only 
a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to 
comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching 
him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of 
the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head 
within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, 
very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until, at length a 
simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull 
blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old 
man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense?—now, I say, there 
came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, 
too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier 
into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily 
I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and 
quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, 
louder every moment!—do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of 
the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable 
terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought 
the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour 
had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an 
instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far 
done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be 
heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, 
he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. 
He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the 
concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the 
corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I 
then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected any thing 
wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. 
A tub had caught all—ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the 
hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart,—for what had I now to 
fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek 
had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged 
at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The 
old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search 
well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of 
my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in 
the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of 
the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered 
cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head 
ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—It 
continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained 
definiteness—until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale;—but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and 
what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped 
for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. 
I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. 
Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations 
of the men—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon 
which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It 
grew louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty 
God!—no, no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this 
I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those 
hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks! here, here!—It is the beating of 
his hideous heart!"