s about
A chest of treasure, and had drawn the wealth
Into its heart to spend it on its fruit.
But while I slowly turn the orange round,
And look more closely, lo, the slightest cut!--
A deep incision made by some sharp steel.
I carefully cut the rind, and without once
Breaking the fine apartments of the fruit,
Or spilling thence a drop of golden juice,
Find that one room through which the steel has passed.
This I dissect, and, testing as I can,
Fail to discover aught that's poisonous.

VIII.

I bring my microscope, and on a seed
Clinging with abject fear, I see a Shape
Whose wings are reeking with foul slime, whose eyes
Glare with a demon lustre born of Pain.
Its face has somewhat of the human shape,
The under-jaw too large, and bearded long;
The forehead full of putrefying sores.
Such front the Genius, Danhasch, may have worn.
It may be that the hideous face is like
The idol Krishna's, from whose feasts depart,
Smitten with cholera, the Hindoo devotees.
The body oozes with a loathsome dew.
Its head is red as if sucked full of blood;
But all the rest, its hundred legs, and tail,
The mailed back, and the wide-webbed prickly wings,
Are green, like those base eyes of jealousy
Which hope to see a covert murder done.
I find the finest needle in the house,
And press the point down on the slimy hide.
The blunt edge crushes, does not pierce the shape,
And brings the straggle that I gloat to see.
The legs stretch out, and work to get away;
A barbed tongue and twin fangs drool from the mouth.
The eyes protrude, and glare with deadly hate,
Until they fix at last in stony calm.

I ponder long on what this shape can be.
There is no doubt Gianni placed it here;
If so, where has he caught and caged a thing
The naked eye has not the power to see?
Its uses must be deadly. In revenge,
He hopes to take the life of her I love.
While poisons of another character
Might be detected, this remains unknown.
The Thing I have discovered--this vile Shape,
Must be an atom of some foul disease!
And now I have the secret. For some days
Gianni waits upon a stricken man,
Who dies, a victim of the cholera.
In some strange manner he has found this germ,
And placed it in the orange, hoping thus
To bring the dread disease to Grace Bernard.

IX.

I seem to be with him I hate, once more,
And now accuse him of the fiendish deed
That I through chance averted. Now I too
Command hi