ve cribbed a
little.

_Barnstaple_. Let's hear.

_Ansard_. "The lovely Angelicanarinella _pottered_ for some time about
this fairy chamber, then `wrote journal.' At last, she _threw herself
down on the floor_, pulled out the miniature, _gulped_ when she looked
at it, and then _cried herself to sleep_."

_Barnstaple_. _Pottered_ and _gulped_! What language do you call that?

_Ansard_. It's all right, my dear fellow. I understand that it is the
refined slang of the modern boudoir, and only known to the initiated.

_Barnstaple_. They had better keep it entirely to their boudoirs. I
should advise you to leave it all out.

_Ansard_. Well, I thought that one who was so very particular, must
have been the standard of perfection herself.

_Barnstaple_. That does not at all follow.

_Ansard_. But what I wish to read to you is the way in which I have
managed that my secret shall never be divulged. It is known only to
four.

_Barnstaple_. A secret known to four people! You must be quick then.

_Ansard_. So I am, as you shall hear; they all meet in a dark gallery,
but do not expect to meet any one but the hero, whom they intend to
murder, each one having, unknown to the others, made an appointment with
him for that purpose, on the pretence of telling him the great secret.
Altogether the scene is well described, but it is long, so I'll come at
once to the _denouement_.

_Barnstaple_. Pray do.

_Ansard_. "Absenpresentini felt his way by the slimy wall, when the
breath of another human being caught his ear: he paused, and held his
own breath. `No, no,' muttered the other, `the _secret of blood and
gold_ shall remain with me alone. Let him come, and he shall find
death.' In a second, the dagger of Absenpresentini was in the
mutterer's bosom:--he fell without a groan. `To me alone the secret of
blood and gold, and with me it remains,' exclaimed Absenpresentini. `It
does remain with you,' cried Phosphorini, driving his dagger into his
back:--Absenpresentini fell without a groan, and Phosphorini,
withdrawing his dagger, exclaimed, `Who is now to tell the secret but
me?' `Not you,' cried Vortiskini, raising up his sword and striking at
where the voice proceeded. The trusty steel cleft the head of the
abandoned Phosphorini, who fell without a groan. `Now will I retain the
secret of blood and gold,' said Vortiskini, as he sheathed his sword.
`Thou shalt,' exclaimed the wily Jesuit, as he struck his st