The clay and turf still continued to fall, now in small pieces, and
again in huge flakes, till the rock and his couch became covered.
'Could the dropping be accidental?' he asked himself. 'Would the
clots if undisturbed, fall so rapidly? How was it that when he first
entered the vault this evening, not a particle of anything came down?'
He stood still, his head almost touching the ceiling, listening as
if to catch some sound. But for a minute he could only hear the
tumultuous beating of his own heart and the occasional downfall of a
fragment of clay or turf. At last he did hear something; or rather
more _felt_ than heard it. At intervals of a few seconds apart
he felt the walls of his room vibrate as if under some powerful blow;
and succeeding each vibration was a shower from the ceiling. The
truth, naked and horrible now rushed upon his mind: _his enemies
were trying to bury him alive_.
Gradually the sound of the blows grew more distinct, from which he
gathered that the miscreants were not about to content themselves
with pounding the surface, and trusting in that slow fashion to
accomplish their crime.
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