I have always been physically courageous, but at the same time, in spite of my education, I am somewhat superstitious--what Neapolitan is not?
it runs in the southern blood.

And there was something unutterably fearful in the sound of that midnight bell clanging harshly on the ears of a man pent up alive in a funeral vault with the decaying bodies of his ancestors close within reach of his hand! I tried to conquer my feelings--to summon up my fortitude.

I endeavored to reason out the best method of escape.

I resolved to feel my way, if possible, to the steps of the vault, and with this idea in my mind I put out my hands and began to move along slowly and with the utmost care.

What was that?
I stopped; I listened; the blood curdled in my veins! A shrill cry, piercing, prolonged, and melancholy, echoed through the hollow arches of my tomb.