But with my brain reeling and my senses confused I turned the time-stained page, and overleaf saw written there in capitals in the centre of one blank folio the ominous words:
“O AVARICIOUS READER
WHO HAST HEEDED NOT THE WARNING!
TRULY THOU ART ENVENOMED AND MUST
DIE. TO THEE NO POWER OF ANTIDOTE CAN
AVAIL, NO HAND CAN SAVE. THE SHARPNESS
OF DEATH IS UPON THEE.”
Then, for the first time, the terrible truth flashed upon me.
The vellum leaves of that secret record were impregnated by some unknown and subtle poison, probably that secret compound of the House of Borgia that could be used to envenom any object and render it deadly to the touch; and I, disregarding the premonition, was poisoned.
I cast the heavy volume from me with a cry of horror and despair. The pain was excruciating. The sting of death was already upon me.
I had reopened The Closed Book—an action that was fatal.