The Ingoldsby Legends; or, Mirth and MarvelsIngoldsby, Thomas
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The Ingoldsby Legends; or, Mirth and Marvels
Ingoldsby, Thomas
English fiction -- 19th century; English poetry -- 19th century; English wit and humor; Humorous poetry, English
"Trifle not the time, man, an you be wise," said the former: "Passion
of my heart! let but yon minute-hand reach the hour, and thou not
immersed, thy life were not worth a pin's fee!"
The Black Cat gave vent to a single Mew,--a most unnatural sound for a
mouser,--it seemed as it were mewed through a cow's horn.
"Quick, Master Marsh! uncase, or you perish!" repeated his strange
host, throwing as he spoke a handful of some dingy-looking powders into
the brazier. "Behold the attack is begun!" A thick cloud rose from the
embers; a cold shivering shook the astonished Yeoman; sharp pricking
pains penetrated his ankles and the palms of his hands, and, as the
smoke cleared away, he distinctly saw and recognised in the mirror the
boudoir of Marston Hall.
The doors of the well-known ebony cabinet were closed; but fixed
against them, and standing out in strong relief from the contrast
afforded by the sable background, was a waxen image--of himself! It
appeared to be secured, and sustained in an upright posture, by large
black pins driven through the feet and palms, the latter of which were
extended in a cruciform position. To the right and left stood his wife
and José; in the middle, with his back towards him, was a figure which
he had no difficulty in recognising as that of the Leech of Folkestone.
The latter had just succeeded in fastening the dexter hand of the
image, and was now in the act of drawing a broad and keen-edged sabre
from its sheath. The Black Cat mewed again. "Haste or you die!" said
the Doctor,--Marsh looked at the dial; it wanted but four minutes of
nine: he felt that the crisis of his fate was come. Off went his heavy
boots; doublet to the right, galligaskins to the left; never was man
more swiftly disrobed: in two minutes, to use an Indian expression, "he
was all face!" in another he was on his back, and up to his chin, in a
bath which smelt strongly as of brimstone and garlic.
"Heed well the clock!" cried the Conjuror: "with the first stroke of
Nine plunge thy head beneath the water, suffer not a hair above the
surface: plunge deeply, or thou art lost!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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