I struggled violently--I strove to cry out, but that terrific pressure took from me all power of utterance.

I twisted myself to right and left in an endeavor to escape--but my tyrant of the sable hand had bound me in on all sides.

Yet I continued to wrestle with the cruel opposing force that strove to overwhelm me--little by little--inch by inch--so! At last! One more struggle--victory! I woke! Merciful God! Where was I?
In what horrible atmosphere--in what dense darkness?
Slowly, as my senses returned to me, I remembered my recent illness.

The monk--the man Pietro--where were they?
What had they done to me?
By degrees, I realized that I was lying straight down upon my back--the couch was surely very hard?
Why had they taken the pillows from under my head?
A pricking sensation darted through my veins--I felt my own hands curiously--they were warm, and my pulse beat strongly, though fitfully.
But what was this that hindered my breathing?
Air--air! I must have air! I put up my hands--horror! They struck against a hard opposing substance above me.

Quick as lightning then the truth flashed upon my mind! I had been buried--buried alive; this wooden prison that inclosed me was a coffin! A frenzy surpassing that of an infuriated tiger took swift possession of me--with hands and nails I tore and scratched at the accursed boards--with all the force of my shoulders and arms I toiled to wrench open the closed lid! My efforts were fruitless! I grew more ferociously mad with rage and terror.