Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/55

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But 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 knelt her down and prayed To that dark sorcerer for his aid. He heard her prayer with withering look; Then from unholy herbs he took