And the evening closed in upon me thus — and then the darkness came, and tarried, and went — and the day again dawned — and the mists of a second night were now gathering around — and still I sat motionless in that solitary room — and still I sat buried in meditation — and still the phantasma of the teeth maintained its terrible ascendancy, as, with the most vivid hideous distinctness, it floated about amid the changing lights and shadows of the chamber.  At length there broke in upon my dreams a cry as of horror and dismay; and thereunto, after a pause, succeeded the sound of troubled voices, intermingled with many low moanings of sorrow or of pain.  I arose from my seat, and throwing open one of the doors of the library, saw standing out in the ante-chamber a servant maiden, all in tears, who told me that Berenice was — no more!  She had been seized with epilepsy in the early morning, and now, at the closing in of the night, the grave was ready for its tenant, and all the preparations for the burial were completed.

* * * * * * *

I found myself sitting in the library, and again sitting there alone.  It seemed that I had newly awakened from a confused and exciting dream.  I knew that it was now midnight, and I was well aware, that since the setting of the sun, Berenice had been interred.  But of that dreary period which intervened I had no positive, at least no definite comprehension.  Yet its memory was replete with horror — horror more horrible from being vague, and terror more terrible from ambiguity.  It was a fearful page in the record my existence, written all over with dim, and hideous, and unintelligible recollections.  I strived to decypher them, but in vain; while ever and anon, like the spirit of a departed sound, the shrill and piercing shriek of a female voice seemed to be ringing in my ears.  I had done a deed — what was it?  I asked myself the question aloud, and the whispering echoes of the chamber answered me, — “what was it?”

On the table beside me burned a lamp, and near it lay a little box.  It was of no remarkable character, and I had seen it frequently before, for it was the property of the family physician; but how came it there, upon my table, and why did I shudder in regarding it?  These things were in no manner to be accounted for, and my eyes at length dropped to the open pages of a book, and to a sentence underscored therein.  The words were the singular but simple ones of the poet Ebn Zaiat:  — “Dicebant mihi sodales si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas meas aliquantulum fore levatas.”  Why then, as I perused them, did the hairs of my head erect themselves on end, and the blood of my body become congealed within my veins?

There came a light tap at the library door — and, pale as the tenant of a tomb, a menial entered upon tiptoe.  His looks were wild with terror, and he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, husky, and very low.  What said he? — some broken sentences I heard.  He told of a wild cry disturbing the silence of the night — of the gathering together of the household — of a search in the direction of the sound; and then his tones grew thrillingly distinct as he whispered me of a violated grave — of a disfigured body enshrouded, yet still breathing - still palpitating — still alive!