But, at this extreme moment, a ray of hope darted suddenly into her heart. Where was she? Upon the very spot where she had received the mystic jar which had worked for her such wonders. The place was the same—the hour, though not so late, was possibly not unpropitious, for the sun was beginning to sink behind the higher buildings of the city. Was it impossible that the same power which had helped her before might again befriend her? The effort was at least worth making, and failure could make matters no worse.
So, even in the sack, before it was closed over her head, with enemies seemingly all around, and death staring her in the face, Ophelia lifted up her head and looking towards the river, slowly pronounced these words.
"Marley-quarley-pachel-farley—
Mansto macken furlesparley,—
Mondo pondo sicho pinto,
Framsigalen hannotinto!"
Everybody was surprised at the words and behaviour of the unfortunate lady.
But what followed surprised them infinitely more. A curious whining, murmuring, incomprehensible sound came along the banks of the river, filling the hearts of those who heard it with a strange sense of fear, and a feeling that something wonderful was about to happen.
The river, too, instead of flowing on in its usual quiet and majestic manner, seemed perturbed in an extraordinary manner, and became as rough as the open ocean in a storm.
By common consent everyone who was present stood as if struck by one feeling of awe, which palsied and unfitted them for action. The men who were supporting the sacks in which the unhappy maidens stood, shivering with fear, remained rooted to their places, and mingled fear and wonder sat upon the faces of the people.