to his native village, high in our hills, one moonlight night. He heard
sounds of fiddle and fife from a roadside barn, and saw yellow light
from its chinks; and then entering, he found many women dancing, old
and young, and among them his affianced. He tried to snatch her round
the waist for a waltz (they play _Mme. Angot_ at our rustic
balls), but the girl was unclutchable, and whispered, "Go; for these
are witches, who will kill thee; and I am a witch also. Alas! I shall
go to hell when I die."

I could tell your Excellency dozens of such stories. But love-philters
are among the commonest things to sell and buy. Do you remember the sad
little story of Cervantes' Licentiate, who, instead of a love-potion,
drank a philter which made him think he was made of glass, fit emblem
of a poor mad poet? ... It is love-philters that Dionea prepares. No;
do not misunderstand; they do not give love of her, still less her
love.

Your seller of love-charms is as cold as ice, as pure as snow. The
priest has crusaded against her, and stones have flown at her as she
went by from dissatisfied lovers; and the very children, paddling in
the sea and making mud-pies in the sand, have put out forefinger and
little finger and screamed, "Witch, witch! ugly witch!" as she passed
with basket or brick load; but Dionea has only smiled, that snake-like,
amused smile, but more ominous than of yore. The other day I determined
to seek her and argue with her on the subject of her evil trade. Dionea
has a certain regard for me; not, I fancy, a result of gratitude, but
rather the recognition of a certain admiration and awe which she
inspires in your Excellency's foolish old servant. She has taken up her
abode in a deserted hut, built of dried reeds and thatch, such as they
keep cows in, among the olives on the cliffs. She was not there, but