The terrible voice of the Psalmist
would hush every other sound. Her sweet soul would pine under the
blazing fire of a curse, real or imaginary; her life would be
henceforth but a bitter penance. Like the girl in Coleridge's poem of
'The Three Graves,' her very flesh would waste before the fires of
her imagination. 'No,' said I, 'such a calamity as this which I dread
Heaven would not permit. So cruel a joke as this Hell itself would
not have the heart to play.'
My meditations were interrupted by a sound, and then by a sensation
such as I cannot describe. Whence came that shriek? It was like a
coming from a distance--loud _there_, faint _here_, and yet it seemed
to come from _me_! It was as though I were witnessing some dreadful
sight unutterable and intolerable. And then it seemed the voice of
Winifred, and then it seemed her father's voice, and finally it
seemed the voice of my own father struggling in his tomb. My horror
stopped the pulses of my heart for a moment, and then it passed.
'It comes from the church or from behind the church,' I said, as the
shriek was followed by an angry murmur as of muffled thunder.
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