liquor turn black, and the streams of wine curdle into
loathly gore. This appearance she told to none, not even
to her sister. Moreover, there was in her palace a marble
chapel to her former husband, to which she used to pay
singular honours, wreathing it with snowy fillets and festal 10
boughs; from it she thought she heard a voice, the accents
of the dead man calling her, when the darkness of night
was shrouding the earth: and on the roof a lonely owl in
funereal tones kept complaining again and again, and
drawing out wailingly its protracted notes; and a thousand 15