An hour passed. During this time, Feliciana and her guide were alarmed by the horrible noises that were heard from the room of the sorceress. Now the most fearful yells—now the most heart-rending groans broke forth—the violent stamping of several individuals were at one time heard, at another, the strangest jargon grated harshly on the ear, while, at the same time, the stench that penetrated through the chinks in the partition almost suffocated those without.
Feliciana and her guide trembled in utter fear.
“Shall we run away?” said one to the other.
“No, no,” answered Feliciana, her whisper almost inarticulate with terror.
Even at this trying moment the thought of Appadocca was the most powerful in her mind. The hope of finding him, sustained her against all terrors.
At the end of the hour the little door of the hut was violently opened, and the little sorceress was seen standing in a body of flame.
“Seek your lover, amidst the tombstones to-morrow, at the lonely hours of night,” she said, and the door was violently closed.
This uncertain answer fell on the ears of Feliciana like a thunderbolt.
“Oh, he is dead—he is dead,” she cried, and wept bitterly.