“And why did he not fly to my arms? Where did you see him? What was he doing?”
“He was asleep.”
In the excess of her joy, the widow did not notice the little man’s ominous look, nor his horrible and scoffing manner.
“Why did you not wake him? Why did not you say to him, ‘Gill, come to your mother?’”
“His sleep was too sound.”
“Oh, when will he come? Tell me, I implore, if I shall see him soon.”
The mock monk drew from beneath his gown a sort of cup of singular shape.
“There, widow,” said he, “drink to your son’s speedy return!”
The widow uttered a shriek of horror. It was a human skull. She waved it away in terror, and could not utter a word.
“No, no!” abruptly exclaimed the man, in an awful voice, “do not turn away your eyes, woman; look. You asked to see your son. Look, I say! for this is all that is left of him.”