Genre - Fantasy. You are on the page - 32
the cargadores had taken along my orchids in their scurry."There was nothing to do but to make the best of it, and that meant getting under way. My rifles and ammunition were in the shelter, and one of the dogs had stayed behind. There was no use crossing the stream, for the opposing cliffs were sheer and apparently unscalable, though I thought I saw traces of a succession of rough steps that almost looked like masonry leading to a ledge halfway up the cliff. But there they ended
'But somebody knows that you are in the house?''No; nobody.' 'How do you get your dinner, then?' 'I keep poultry - of a sort.' 'Where do you keep them?' 'I will show you.' 'And who makes the chicken broth for you?' 'I never kill any of MY chickens.' 'Then I can't understand.' 'What did you have for breakfast this morning?' asked the lady. 'Oh! I had bread and milk, and an egg - I dare say you eat their eggs.' 'Yes, that's it. I eat their eggs.' 'Is that what makes your hair so white?' 'No, my
easily expelled, and had dyed with blackness the walls towhich, bat-like, it had clung, these tapers served but ill tolight up the gloomy hangings, and seemed to throw yet darkershadows into the hollows of the deep-wrought cornice. All thefurther portions of the room lay shrouded in a mystery whosedeepest folds were gathered around the dark oak cabinet which Inow approached with a strange mingling of reverence andcuriosity. Perhaps, like a geologist, I was about to turn up tothe light some of
nstrument, and this must have been done while all in the castle slept. Glinda was shocked and grieved. Who could have done this wicked, bold thing? And who could wish to deprive her of her Great Book of Records?The Sorceress was thoughtful for a time, considering the consequences of her loss. Then she went to her Room of Magic to prepare a charm that would tell her who had stolen the Record Book. But, when she unlocked her cupboards and threw open the doors, all of her magical instruments and
nothing, I might yet come in contact with something; but my search was vain. Instinctively then, as to the only living thing near me, I turned to the raven, which stood a little way off, regarding me with an expression at once respectful and quizzical. Then the absurdity of seeking counsel from such a one struck me, and I turned again, overwhelmed with bewilderment, not unmingled with fear. Had I wandered into a region where both the material and psychical relations of our world had ceased to
