What answer, O Nin-ki-gal?
Have pity, O Queen of Queens!
And the Sibyl's face was that of Fenella Stanley—her voice was that of Sinfi Lovell.
And then from that dizzy height seemed to come a cackling laugh:—
'You makes me blush, an' blow me if blushin' ain't bin an' made t'other eye dry. I lives in Primrose Court, Great Queen Street, an' my reg'lar perfession is a-sellin' coffee "so airly in the mornin'," and I've got a darter as ain't quite so 'ansom as me, bein' the moral of her father.'
And now in my vision I perceived that Nin-ki-gal's face was that of the old woman I had seen in Cyril's studio, and that she was dressed in the same fantastic in which Cyril had bedizened her.
VI
I sprang up, struck a light and relit the candle, and soon reached the coffin resting on a stone table. I found, on examining it, that although it had been screwed down after the discovery of the violation, the work had been so loosely done that a few turns of the screwdriver were sufficient to set the lid free. Then I paused; for to raise the loosened lid (knowing as I did that it was only the blood's inherited follies that had conquered my rationalism and induced me to disturb the tomb) seemed to require the strength of a giant. Moreover, the fantastic terror of old Lantoff's story, which at another time would have made me smile, also took bodily shape, and the picture of a dreadful struggle at the edge of the cliff between Winnie's father and mine seemed to hang in the air—a fascinating mirage of ghastly horror.
* * * * *
At last, by an immense effort of will, I closed my eyes and pushed the lid violently on one side.
* * * * *