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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 had 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 the 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;—