From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast.  The storm was still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself crossing the old causeway.  Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued; for the vast house and its shadows were alone behind me.  The radiance was that of the full, setting, and blood-red moon which now shone vividly through that once barely discernible fissure of which I have before spoken as extending from the roof of the building, in a zigzag direction, to the base.  While I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened—­there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind—­the entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon my sight—­my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder—­there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters—­and the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the “HOUSE OF USHER.”

FOOTNOTES: 

[Footnote 1:  Watson, Dr Percival, Spallanzani, and especially the Bishop of Landaff.]

II

THE OLD NURSE’S STORY

From “The Portent”

By GEORGE MACDONALD

I set out one evening for the cottage of my old nurse, to bid her good-bye for many months, probably years.  I was to leave the next day for Edinburgh, on my way to London, whence I had to repair by coach to my new abode—­almost to me like the land beyond the grave, so little did I know about it, and so wide was the separation between it and my home.  The evening was sultry when I began my walk, and before I arrived at its end, the clouds rising from all quarters of the horizon, and especially gathering around the peaks of the mountain, betokened the near approach of a thunderstorm.  This was a great delight to me.  Gladly would I take leave of my home with the memory of a last night of tumultuous magnificence; followed, probably, by a day of weeping rain, well suited to the mood of my own heart in bidding farewell to the best of parents and the dearest of homes.  Besides, in common with most Scotchmen who are young and hardy enough to be unable to realise the existence of coughs and rheumatic fevers, it was a positive pleasure to me to be out in rain, hail, or snow.

“I am come to bid you good-bye, Margaret, and to hear the story which you promised to tell me before I left home:  I go to-morrow.”

“Do you go so soon, my darling?  Well, it will be an awful night to tell it in; but, as I promised, I suppose I must.”

At the moment, two or three great drops of rain, the first of the storm, fell down the wide chimney, exploding in the clear turf-fire.

“Yes, indeed you must,” I replied.

After a short pause, she commenced.  Of course she spoke in Gaelic; and I translate from my recollection of the Gaelic; but rather from the impression left upon my mind, than from any recollection of words.  She drew her chair near the fire, which we had reason to fear would soon be put out by the falling rain, and began.