setto of
terror, his eyes nearly dropping out of his head, and foam upon his
lips. "_Look!--look!--look!_ she's shrivelling up! she's turning into
a monkey!" and down he fell upon the ground, foaming and gnashing in a
fit.

True enough--I faint even as I write it in the living presence of that
terrible recollection--she _was_ shrivelling up; the golden snake that
had encircled her gracious form slipped over her hips and to the ground;
smaller and smaller she grew; her skin changed colour, and in place of
the perfect whiteness of its lustre it turned dirty brown and yellow,
like an piece of withered parchment. She felt at her head: the
delicate hand was nothing but a claw now, a human talon like that of a
badly-preserved Egyptian mummy, and then she seemed to realise what kind
of change was passing over her, and she shrieked--ah, she shrieked!--she
rolled upon the floor and shrieked!

Smaller she grew, and smaller yet, till she was no larger than a monkey.
Now the skin was puckered into a million wrinkles, and on the shapeless
face was the stamp of unutterable age. I never saw anything like it;
nobody ever saw anything like the frightful age that was graven on that
fearful countenance, no bigger now than that of a two-months' child,
though the skull remained the same size, or nearly so, and let all men
pray they never may, if they wish to keep their reason.

At last she lay still, or only feebly moving. She, who but two minutes
before had gazed upon us the loveliest, noblest, most splendid woman the
world has ever seen, she lay still before us, near the masses of her own
dark hair, no larger than a big monkey, and hideous--ah, too hideous for
words. And yet, think of this--at that very moment I thought of it--it
was the _same_ woman!

She was dying: we saw it, and thanked God--for while she lived she could
feel, and what must she have felt? She raised herself upon her bony
hands, and blindly gazed around her, swaying her head slowly from side
to side as a tortoise does. She could not see, for her whitish eyes were
covered with a horny film. Oh, the horrible pathos of the sight! But she
could still speak.

"Kallikrates," she said in husky, trembling notes. "Forget me not,
Kallikrates. Have pity on my shame; I shall come again, and shall once
more be beautiful, I swear it--it is true! _Oh--h--h--_" and she fell
upon her face, and was still.

On the very spot where more than twenty centuries before she had slain
Kal