Soon after sunset he laid himself in his lonely bed, though without any expectation of closing his eyes in sleep; for his mind was absorbed in reflections upon the awful entry into another world, and a review of his past life. As the shades of night gathered around him, he could almost fancy that he beheld, in one faint object or another in his gloomy chamber, the dreadful person of the Angel of Death: and at length he actually perceived a figure gliding in at the door, and approaching his bed. Starting up in horror, he exclaimed, "Who art thou?"--and a stern and solemn voice answered, "Be silent! I am 'Azraeel, the Angel of Death!"--"Alas!" cried the terrified man; "I testify that there is no deity but God, and I testify that Moḥammad is God's Apostle! There is no strength nor power but in God, the High! the Great! To God we belong, and to Him we must return!"--He then covered himself over with his quilt, as if for protection, and lay with throbbing heart, expecting every moment to have his soul torn from him by the inexorable messenger. But moments passed away, and minutes, and hours; yet without his experiencing any hope of escape; for he imagined that the Angel was waiting for him to resign himself, or had left him for a while, and was occupied in receiving first the souls of the many hundred human beings who had attained their predestined term in that same night and in the same city, and the souls of the thousands who were doomed to employ him elsewhere. Daybreak arrived before his sufferings terminated; and his neighbours, coming according to their promise, entered his chamber, and found him still in bed; but observing that he was covered up, and motionless as a corpse, they doubted whether he were still alive, and called to him. He answered, with a faint voice, "I am not yet dead; but the Angel of Death came to me in the dusk of the evening, and I expect every moment his return, to take my soul: therefore trouble me not; but see me washed and buried."--"But why," said his friends, "was the street-door left unlatched?"--"I latched it," he answered, "but the Angel of Death may have opened it."--"And who," they asked, "is the man in the court?"--He answered, "I know of no man in the court: perhaps the Angel who is waiting for my soul has made himself visible to you, and been mistaken, in the twilight, for a man."--"He is a thief," they said, "who has gathered together everything in the house that he could carry away, and has been struck by the plague while doing so, and now lies dead in the court, at the foot of the stairs, grasping in his hand a silver candlestick."--The master of the house, after hearing this, paused for a moment, and then, throwing off his quilt, exclaimed, "Praise be to God, the Lord of all creatures! That is the eleventh, and I am safe! No doubt it was that rascal who came to me and said that he was the Angel of Death. Praise be to God! Praise be to God!"