But she does not think of catching
the measure of his music; she rushes, she flies forward. Staring
with her expressionless, motionless orbs at something before her,
at something that is not visible to our mortal eyes, she hardly
glances at her worshippers; then her look becomes full of fire;
and whoever she looks at feels burned through to the marrow of
his bones. At every glance she throws a few grains of rice.
The small handful seems inexhaustible, as if the wrinkled palm
contained the bottomless bag of Prince Fortunatus.
Suddenly she stops as if thunderstruck.
The mad race round the bonfire had lasted twelve minutes, but we
looked in vain for a trace of fatigue on the deathlike face of
the witch. She stopped only for a moment, just the necessary time
for the goddess to release her. As soon as she felt free, by a
single effort she jumped over the fire and plunged into the deep
tank by the portico. This time, she plunged only once; and whilst
she stayed under the water, the second sister-goddess entered her
body. The little boy in white produced another dish, with a new
piece of burning camphor, just in time for the witch to take it up,
and to rush again on her headlong way.
The colonel sat with his watch in his hand. During the second
obsession the witch ran, leaped, and raced for exactly fourteen
minutes. After this, she plunged twice in the tank, in honor of
the second sister; and with every new obsession the number of her
plunges increased, till it became six.
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