lord of battles, and holds the flaming sword. I doom thee to
perdition in the name of Sardaliphonos, who presents to his master
the flowers and garlands of merit offered by the children of Israel.

"Be cursed, hound! Anathema, swine!"

Looking from whence the voice came, we could see Mosaide on the
threshold of his house, standing erect, his arms raised, his hands
in the form of fangs, with nails crooked, appearing inflamed by the
fiery light of the sun. His head was covered with his dirty tiara,
and he was enveloped in his gorgeous gown, showing when flying open
his meagre bow-legs in ragged breeches. He looked like some begging
magician, immortal, and very old. His eyes glared, and he said:

"Be cursed in the name of all globes, be cursed in the name of all
wheels, be cursed in the name of the mysterious beasts Ezekiel saw."

Out he stretched his long arms, ending in claws, and continued:

"In the name of the globes, in the name of the wheels, in the name
of the mysterious beasts, descend among those who are no more."

We advanced a few paces between the half-grown trees to see the
object over which Mosaide extended his arms and his anger, and
discovered, to our great surprise, M. Jerome Coignard, hanging by a
lapel of his gown on an evergreen thorn bush. The night's disorder
was visible all over his body; his collar and his shoes torn, his
stockings smeared with mud, his shirt open, all reminded me of our
common misadventures, and, worse than all, the swelling of his nose
spoilt entirely the noble and smiling expression which never left