But she was not sure just how to reach it. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Can you inform us whence it came?" "I should think so. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. If we do not begin—” She had come to a resolution. ‘Do not speak any more for you give yourself pain,’ said Melusine fearfully.
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