inquire
hoarsely:

"What of its further virtues?"

"When it shall have pricked thee," returned the mysterious personage, "on
turning it once completely round thy finger thou wilt see thy mistress
wherever she may be. If thou turnest it the second time, thou wilt know
what her thought of thee is; and, if the third time, thou wilt find
thyself in her presence. But I give thee fair warning that by doing this
thou wilt place thyself in a more disastrous plight than any thou hast
experienced hitherto. And now farewell."

The speaker disappeared. Otto stood alone upon the bridge. He saw nothing
around him but the stream, with its shadows and lights, as he slowly and
thoughtfully turned round to walk to his lodgings.

III

Ye who have loved, et cetera, as aforesaid, will comprehend the anxiety
with which Otto henceforth consulted his ring. He was continually adjusting
it to his finger in a manner, as he fancied, to render the anticipated
puncture more perceptible when it should come at last. He would have worn
it on all his fingers in succession had the conformation of his robust hand
admitted of its being placed on any but the slenderest. Thousands of times
he could have sworn that he felt the admonitory sting; thousands of times
he turned the trinket round and round with desperate impatience; but
Aurelia's form remained as invisible, her thoughts as inscrutable, as
before. His great dread was that he might be pricked in his sleep, on which
account he would sit up watching far into the morn. For, as he reasoned,
not without plausibility, when could he more rationally hope for a place in
Aurelia's thoughts than at that witching and suggestive period? She might
surely think of him when she had nothing else to do! Had she really nothing
else to do? And Otto grew sick and livid with jealousy. It of course
frequently occurred to him to doubt and deride the virtues of the ring, and
he was several times upon the point of flinging it away. But the more he
pondered upon the appearance and manner of the stranger, the less able he
felt to resist the conviction of his truthfulness.

At last a most unmistakable puncture! the distinct, though slight, pang of
a miniature wound. A crimson bead of blood rose on Otto's finger, swelled
to its due proportion, and became a trickling blot.

"She is thinking of me!" cried he rapturously, as if this were an instance
of the most signal and unforeseen condescension. All the weary expect