THE IMPROVISATRICE.
43
But Ida entered in the cell,
Where dwelt the wizard of the dell.
Her heart lay dead, her life-blood froze
To look upon the shape which rose
To bar her entrance. On that face
Was scarcely left a single trace
Of human likeness: the parched skin
Showed each discoloured bone within;
And, but for the most evil stare
Of the wild eyes’ unearthly glare,
It was a corpse, you would have said,
From which life’s freshness long had fled.
Yet Ida knelt her down and prayed
To that dark sorcerer for his aid.
He heard her prayer with withering look;[1]
Then from unholy herbs he took
- ↑ see frontispiece
