And now I was shut in the same vault--a prisoner--with what hope of escape?
I reflected.

The entrance to the vault, I remembered, was barred by a heavy door of closely twisted iron--from thence a flight of steep steps led downward--downward to where in all probability I now was.

Suppose I could in the dense darkness feel my way to those steps and climb up to that door--of what avail?
It was locked--nay, barred--and as it was situated in a remote part of the burial-ground, there was no likelihood of even the keeper of the cemetery passing by it for days--perhaps not for weeks.

Then must I starve?
Or die of thirst?
Tortured by these imaginings, I rose up from the pavement and stood erect.

My feet were bare, and the cold stone on which I stood chilled me to the marrow.