” He took a seat by her side. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. ‘You can’t prove nothing. She laughed as the deluge seemed to grow worse with every step. Opening the trap-door, he then descended to the vaults —searched each cell, and every nook and corner separately. I believe so because the 220 stories say his head was cut off by a tribe of witches and yet it still remained alive for many years after his decapitation. Feeling rather exhausted, it occurred to him that possibly some provisions might have been left by the constable; and, looking about, he perceived a pitcher of water and a small brown loaf on the floor.
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