eeling of fascination came over him--his brain grew dizzy, and
he felt as if under the influence of a horrible dream. Then it uttered
its strange, unnatural cry, and with the crawling motion of a snake,
stole to his side. He felt its breath, like the noisome breath of a
charnel-house, upon his cheek; he felt its cold, clammy touch, and could
not thrust it from him; it twined its distorted, fleshless arms around
him, and repeated its awful yell. Then Sydney fell prostrate upon the
floor, insensible.

When he recovered from his swoon, (in which he had lain for many hours)
he felt numbed with cold, sick with the foetid atmosphere of the place,
and faint with hunger. The dwarf was ferociously devouring some carrion
which had been thrown into the dungeon; and the creature made uncouth
signs to our hero, as if inviting him to eat. But on examining the food
he found it to be so repulsive, that he turned from it in disgust, and
resolved, sooner than partake of it, to let starvation put an end to his
misery.

CHAPTER XXI

_Josephine and Mrs. Franklin receive two important Visits._

Josephine Franklin and her mother were languidly partaking of a late
breakfast, and indolently discussing the merits of the Italian opera, to
which they had both been on the preceding night.

It not being the hour for fashionable calls, both ladies were attired
with an extreme negligence which indicated that they anticipated seeing
no company. And yet, to the eyes of a true connoisseur in beauty, there
was something far more seductive in those voluptuous dishabilles, than
there could have been in the most magnificent full dress. The
conversation in which they were engaged, was characteristic of them
both:--

'I think, mamma,' said Josephine--'that the most captivating fellow on
the stage last night, was the Signor Stopazzi, who played the peasant.
Ah, what superb legs! what a fine chest! what graceful motions! I am
dying to get him for a lover!'

'What, tired of the handsome Sinclair already?' asked Mrs. Franklin with
a smile.

'Indeed, to confess the truth, mamma,' replied Josephine--'the Doctor is
becoming somewhat _de trop_--and then, again, those Italians make such
delightful lovers; so full of fire, and passion, and poetry; and music,
and charming romance--ah, I adore them!'

'Apropos of Italian lovers,' said her mother. 'I once had one; I was
then in my sixteenth year, and superbly beautiful. My Angelo was a
divine youth, and