What on earth was the matter with the bed?
Was it bewitched?
Who had uncovered him in that unceremonious way, leaving him perished with cold?
No wonder he had dreamt of that chilly wind, numbing his body as he stood naked by the pool.

Had he by any chance kicked the coverlet off in his sleep, as he engaged in that dream-struggle with the absurdly impossible Buskin-Lubin who had attempted to pitch him into the dark water?
Clearly not; for that would not account for the sheet and blanket being dragged so carefully out of the range of his hands, and hung over the foot-rail so that they touched the floor.
Such were the thoughts that flashed through his mind as he stood motionless by the window, with wide open eyes, in the chill morning light.

Suddenly a rending, bursting noise was heard in the ceiling.
The crack widened into a chasm, and then, with a heavy thud, down fell a confused mass of old bricks, crumbling mortar, and rotten, worm-eaten wood full on the mattress he had just relinquished, scattering pulverised rubble in all directions, and covering the bed with a layer of horrible dust and _debris_..