“Ah, the pagan sight of you! Ah, your wild hair, growing from the fern
or melting into it! Ah, your face, the very flowering of a hamadryad!
It wrought a frenzy in my brain. Forgive me, forgive me! And I will
serve you seven times seven years, for the promise only to be
godfather to your last--your Benjamin!”
He sank down on the stool, and, burying his face in his hands, was
silent.
I thought a practical rescue of the situation best, and rising from my
bed, went to bestir myself over the fire, which was burning redly.
Moreover, a delectable odour had already reached my nostrils from the
little caldron he had hung there, and whose contents were beginning to
inspire me with a very lively curiosity.