it a large substance, as big as an ostrich’s egg, which she thrust into Rupert’s bosom, exclaiming: “Insolent wretch! take that as a punishment for having set at naught the sacred laws of hospitality.”
Having said this, she took a flask containing some strong narcotic fluid, and sprinkled its contents upon the face of the Count, who immediately sunk insensible on a sofa. On recovering his senses, he found himself surrounded by impenetrable darkness; the lights were extinguished, and there was profound silence. In a few minutes, a door opposite him opened, and there entered a lean old woman, bearing a lanthorn, by the light of which she examined his face. In her he immediately recognised the Signora’s herb-woman, whom Ulric had described in his letter. Starting up, he mechanically cast his eyes over his chest, and found to his horror that the superfluous hunch which had been taken from Ulric’s shoulder had been annexed to his own person, forming a counterpart to the protuberance on his back. Half frantic with rage, he seized the old woman by the throat, and yelled out: “Execrable scarecrow! where is the vile sorceress thy mistress? Tell me, that my sword may avenge this outrage! Speak! or I strangle thee!”
“Noble sir,” gasped the crone, “waste not your anger upon a poor servant, who has had nought to do with the injury that has been inflicted on you.
