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a disturbed and fitful slumber of some eight or ten hours' duration, I was thoroughly aroused by the tolling of the great bell—one stroke only. 'The bell strikes one; we take no note of time save from its loss, to give it then a tongue is wise in man.' That toll resounded through the palace like the knell of Doom. My heart sank within me: my soul seemed to become that of a despicable, grovelling coward, and I actually trembled with apprehension. But after a little sober reflection, I whispered to myself, 'Courage, Oliver; remember Cromwell, things may not be so bad as they seem; the Demon may mean what he says when he assures you so solemnly that he will protect you, and take you back again to your beloved Great Lake; and as for the dangerous witch Bellagranda, she may forget all about you soon, when she falls in love with somebody else and not turn you into a black dog after all; so courage, my boy: be strong, fear not, but hope for the best!'

A loud knock at my door recalled me to a sense of my position and extreme danger; for it convinced me that I was still in the power of the Demon. I sprang from my bed, and opened the door cautiously. A gigantic negro, with a most extraordinary face, something like that of a