at times so low as to be scarcely discernible, yet never wholly ceasing: now swelling like the high notes of the Æolian harp, close as it would seem to her very bedside; then softly retreating—away—away—it would seem miles afar, yet still distinct; then swelling again—nearer, and nearer, and yet more near. She was too fearfully agitated, too full of terror, to tell if it were vocal or instrumental—the question did not then even occur to her; it was like a chant by human voices; but if there were words to it, she did not catch them.
At last, with a desperate effort (a very woman's courage, born of excess of fear), she sprang from her bed, and gaining the window with uncertain steps, she loosed the clasp, and flung the casement wide open. The sultry summer night was damp and starless, and although without she could discern the dim outline of the trees, it gave no light into the chamber; but the outer air had somewhat revived her, and for a moment she clung to the window-frame for support, glancing fearfully behind her into the darkness. Nothing moved in the chamber but herself,
