On the seventh or eighth night after the entombment I was unable to sleep. An irrepressible tremor pervaded my frame, and I paced the chamber to and fro. Usher came to my door with a lamp, and his manner was hysterically composed. I took up the Mad Trist of Sir Launcelot Canning and began to read aloud, hoping to quiet him. I had arrived at the passage where Ethelred breaks the door of the hermit's dwelling, and I became aware of a sound which might have been the echo of the very cracking that Sir Launcelot had described. I read on. As the hero slew the dragon, there came a harsh and prolonged shriek from somewhere below. I sprang to my feet, but Usher sat rocking from side to side with a gentle smile, and he was muttering to himself.