d over her shoulders. Her thin, cruel lips were
drawn to a rigid line, and her eyes were filled with red fire as
she drew the casket of ebony out of her bosom and opened it with a
reverential touch, as a devotee would touch a shrine of relics. She took
out a small, gilded vial of antique shape, containing a clear, bright
liquid, which, as she shook it up, seemed filled with a million sparks
of fire.

Before drawing the glass stopper of the vial, La Corriveau folded a
handkerchief carefully over her mouth and nostrils, to avoid inhaling
the volatile essence of its poisonous contents. Then, holding the
bouquet with one hand at arm's length, she sprinkled the glowing roses
with the transparent liquid from the vial which she held in the other
hand, repeating, in a low, harsh tone, the formula of an ancient
incantation, which was one of the secrets imparted to Antonio Exili by
the terrible Beatrice Spara.

La Corriveau repeated by rote, as she had learned from her mother, the
ill-omened words, hardly knowing their meaning, beyond that they were
something very potent, and very wicked, which had been handed down
through generations of poisoners and witches from the times of heathen
Rome:

"'Hecaten voco!
Voco Tisiphonem!
Spargens avernales aquas,
Te morti devoveo, te diris ago!"'

The terrible drops of the aqua tofana glittered like dew on the glowing
flowers, taking away in a moment all their fragrance, while leaving all
their beauty unimpaired. The poison sank into the very hearts of the
roses, whence it breathed death from every petal and every leaf, leaving
them fair as she who had sent them, but fatal to the approach of lip or
nostril, fit emblems of her unpitying hate and remorseless jealousy.

La Corriveau wrapped the bouquet in a medicated paper of silver tissue,
which prevented the escape of the volatile death, and replacing the
roses carefully in the basket, prepared for her departure to Beaumanoir.

CHAPTER XL. QUOTH THE RAVEN, "NEVERMORE!"

It was the eve of St. Michael. A quiet autumnal night brooded over
the forest of Beaumanoir. The moon, in her wane, had risen late, and
struggled feebly among the broken clouds that were gathering slowly in
the east, indicative of a storm. She shed a dim light through the glades
and thickets, just enough to discover a path where the dark figure of
a woman made her way swiftly and cautiously towards the Chateau of the
Intend