I was alone and went on my way rejoicing.

Suddenly the earth opened under my feet, and I fell deep, fathom-deep;--deep, as if to that central pit, which our heathen sires called Niffelheim--the Home of Vapour--the hell of the dead who die without glory.

Stunned by the fall, I lay long, locked as in a dream in the midst of a dream.

When I opened my eyes, behold, I was girt round with dead men's bones; and the bones moved round me, undulating, as the dry leaves that wirble round in the winds of the winter.

And from midst of them peered a trunkless skull, and on the skull was a mitre, and from the yawning jaws a voice came hissing, as a serpent's hiss, 'Harold, the scorner, thou art ours!' Then, as from the buzz of an army, came voices multitudinous, 'Thou art ours!' I sought to rise, and behold my limbs were bound, and the gyves were fine and frail, as the web of the gossamer, and they weighed on me like chains of iron.