Such is the power of my word! By the rites of a virgin

Quenched is the raging of bulls; and the sun's daughter Circe

Changed and transfigured the crew of the wily Ulysses.

Proteus changes his form when his good pleasure dictates,

I, who am skilled in these arts, can the shrubs of Mount Ida

Plant in the ocean; turn rivers to flow up the mountains!"

CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIFTH.

At this declaration, which was so awe-inspiring, I shuddered in terror,
and commenced to scrutinize the crone more narrowly. "Come now," said
OEnothea, "obey my orders," and, carefully wiping her hands, she bent
over the cot and kissed me, once, twice! On the middle of the altar
OEnothea placed an old table, upon which she heaped live coals, then with
melted pitch she repaired a goblet which had become cracked through age.
Next she replaced, in the smoke-stained wall, a peg which had come out
when she took down the wooden goblet. Then, having donned a mantle, in
the shape of a piece of square-cut cloth, she set a huge kettle upon the
hearth and at the same time speared with a fork a cloth hanging upon the
meathooks, and lifted it down. It contained some beans which had been
laid away for future use, and a very small and stale piece of pig's
cheek, scored with a thousand slashes. When she had untied the string
which fastened the cloth, she poured some of the beans upon the table and
ordered me to shell them quickly and carefully. I obey her mandate and
with careful fingers separate the beans from the filthy pods which
contain them; but she, accusing my clumsiness, hastily snatched them and,
skillfully tearing off the pods with her teeth, spat them upon the
ground, where they looked like dead flies. I wondered, then, at the
ingenuity of poverty and its expedients for emergency. (So ardent a
follower of this virtue did the priestess seem that it was reflected in
everything around her. Her dwelling, in particular, was a very shrine of
poverty.)

No Indian ivory set in gold gleamed here,
No trodden marble glistened here; no earth
Mocked for its gifts; but Ceres' festive grove:
With willow wickerwork 'twas set around,
New cups of clay by revolutions shaped
Of lowly wheel. For honey soft, a bowl;
Platters of green bark wickerwork, a jar
Stained by the lifeblood of the God of Wine;
The walls arou