August W. Derleth

“ I could feel the lid now, lightly at first, for it advanced but slowly. A space passed, and the pressure began to pain me. Then came to me a last great power, and I shouted and raved, swearing horribly, until the sweat rolled down my cheeks in great drops. The pressure beeame more and more pronounced, the air more obnoxious, the gnawing more persistent, the racking pain in my shoulders more torturous with each twitch, and at length I became oblivious of all.
What am I doing here? Was I not in the iron coffin? Have I died and come to life? ”

“ The rats were gone now, frightened, no doubt, by my wild screams of terror. But poignantly I realized that they must eventually return. I lowered my eyelids and began to mumble a silent prayer, but I was rudely interrupted.
A new sound, a sound fraught with more dangers and horrors than any I had heard heretofore, reached my ears. A light sound, barely coherent—yet it was there. A creaking sound, slow, in truth, and not continuous, but its portent flung me again into the wildest throes of terror. The sound of the slow, sure descent of the coffin lid! ”

“ The old woman chuckled a bit, but gave no hint of having heard Messer Morini, and went on with her crooning.
"I wonder what my son could be doing riding near here. Could he have deserted the army? Or could the invader, Charles, have defeated and routed our troops? It is not likely so."
He mused.
It was high noon. The hot sun beat down upon the court, wilting even the blades of grass. Messer Morini dozed in the shade of a huge tree near the iron paling. A bird chirped shrilly as it hopped merrily about on the sun-dial near by. No breath of air stirred the leaves above Messer Morini's head. ”

“ The rider swept by, but still the old woman said nothing, staring at Messer Morini gesticulating and pointing at the night rider fast disappearing down the road.
Messer Morini swore softly under his breath.
"By the Madonna, but he looked like my son, my Alessandro. If it were not that I could not see his face! Did he not resemble my son, Madonna?"
The old woman made no answer, but turned and entered the house, crooning softly to herself. He followed her, grumbling.
"Bah! The old hag walks in her sleep." ”

“ The sun easts long patches of light upon the stone floor of my cell, and forms a network of conflicting shadows with the aid of the heavy bars at my window. My clothes are tom, bedraggled. I lack three fingers of the right hand, and one and a half of another of the left. ”

“ There was a low mumbling sound behind him, and he heard the heavy door swing softly to. He turned. Madonna Lucrezia had followed him. The hoof-beats sounded nearer. He turned to the old woman at his side. ”