(_A Mediæval Tragedy._)
"I want," said the maiden, glancing round her with tremulous distaste at
the stuffed crocodile, the black cat and the cauldron simmering on the
hearth, "to see some of your complexion specialities."
"You want nothing of the kind," retorted the witch. "Why prevaricate? A
maid with your colour hath small need even of my triple extract of toads'
livers. What you have really come for is either a love-potion--" she paused
and glanced keenly at her visitor--"or the means to avenge love
unrequited."
The maiden had flushed crimson. "I wish he were dead!" she whispered.
"Now you are talking. That wish is, of course, the simplest thing in the
world to gratify, if only you are prepared to pay for it. I presume Moddam
would not desire anything too easy?"
"He had promised,", broke out the maiden uncontrollably, "to take me to the
charity bear-baiting matinée in aid of unemployed ex-Crusaders. The whole
thing was arranged. And then at the last moment--"
"Precisely as I had supposed. A case for one of our superior wax images,
made to model, with pins complete. Melted before a slow fire ensures the
gradual wasting of the original with pangs corresponding to the insertion
of each pin."