After listening a while the horrible gigantic Shape began slowly to turn away, and exclaimed in hoarse, hollow tones,—
“Enough! I surrender!”
Leander neatly turned the exclamation into a compliment.
“My oratory conquers gods, men, or she-devils!”
He then addressed the retiring Shape.
“Stay, I pray thee! Thou art not comely, but peradventure thou canst serve me! I would have none of thy incantations, but thou hast in store a variety of potions. Art thou skilled in their preparation?”
“For more than twoscore years have I distilled and cunningly concentrated the occult and deadly forces of nature,” said the Shape with a ghastly grin. “I am a daughter of the Etrurians, and their wonderful secrets and enchantments have come down to me from the dim past. I have philters for the loveless, promises of treasure for the needy, and potions for revenge, for tragedy, for blight, and for destiny! What wilt thou?”
“Hast thou a blight which will very slowly, but with grim certainty, dull the reason, destroy the wisdom, and hasten to decay before the wonted time all the faculties of the Mind?”
The Shape stretched out her long, bony fingers and took one of the small phials, and holding it before her stony eyes, replied,—
“In color and taste like water; yet he who takes it in any form, in three years will become a drivelling idiot! The brain! the brain! It slowly scorches, and nothing can put it out! It will mingle with water or even Falernian!”