Ifoundmyselfsittinginthelibrary，andagainsittingtherealone。ItseemedthatIhadnewlyawakenedfromaconfusedandexcitingdream。Iknewthatitwasnowmidnight，andIwaswellaware，thatsincethesettingofthesun，Berenicehadbeeninterred。
ButofthatdrearyperiodwhichintervenedIhadnopositive，atleastnodefinitecomprehension。Yetitsmemorywasrepletewithhorror-horrormorehorriblefrombeingvague，andterrormoreterriblefromambiguity。Itwasafearfulpageintherecordmyexistence，writtenalloverwithdim，andhideous，andunintelligiblerecollections。Istrivedtodecypherthem，butinvain；whileeverandanon，likethespiritofadepartedsound，theshrillandpiercingshriekofafemalevoiceseemedtoberinginginmyears。I
haddoneadeed-whatwasit？Iaskedmyselfthequestionaloud，andthewhisperingechoesofthechamberansweredme，-“_whatwasit？_“
Onthetablebesidemeburnedalamp，andnearitlayalittlebox。Itwasofnoremarkablecharacter，andIhadseenitfrequentlybefore，foritwasthepropertyofthefamilyphysician；buthowcameit_there_，uponmytable，andwhydidIshudderinregardingit？
Thesethingswereinnomannertobeaccountedfor，andmyeyesatlengthdroppedtotheopenpagesofabook，andtoasentenceunderscoredtherein。ThewordswerethesingularbutsimpleonesofthepoetEbnZaiat：-“_Dicebantmihisodalessisepulchrumamicaevisitarem，curasmeasaliquantulumforelevatas_。”Whythen，asI