[Follows him.
Enter Count.
Count. Am I turn'd coward, that my tottering knees
Knock as I tread the pavement?—'Tis the place;
The sombrous horror of these long-drawn aisles.
My footsteps are beat back by naught but echo,
Struck from the caverns of the vaulted dead;
Yet now it seem'd as if a host pursued me.
The breath, that makes my words, sounds thunder-like.
Sure 'twas a deep-fetch'd groan.—No;—hark, again!