"It's my turn now," said the little gentleman, "and your fury, my dear fellow, will quickly give place to repentance. Go--faithless to thy oath--wait still upon thy master." For three days and nights the figure of the little gentleman, perfect in all its parts, kept before him; it was beside him at his meals, and floated in the wine he carried to the hall. In every drop that sparkled in the goblet the little figure swam--his threadbare coat and club foot were outlined in admirable distinctness, and the contumelious smile that followed the threat he made in the kitchen, played upon his lips in insupportable perfection: the figure was shadowed in the tea he drank and seemed tangible in the empty dish; it clung like vermin to his clothes, was under his feet at every step, dangled pendulous from his nose and was snugly stowed away in both its nostrils. Farragio felt him continually crawling upon the epidermis of his arms and legs, and carried him between his fingers and his toes. The figure danced in visible shadow upon the very expressions that fell from his lips, and roosted in number as an army upon the tester of his bed. Did the bell of his master summon him to his chamber or the hall, the figure, large as life, was in the door way to impede his passage; if he went to either place, it was between him and his master or with whomsoever else he was engaged. His goings out and his comings in, his lyings down and his risings up, were all molested by this singular Protean thing, which, though always the same figure, accommodated itself to any size. If he laid his hand upon any of the furniture of his kitchen, or felt in his pocket for his penknife or his toothpick, his fingers were sure to encounter the elastic contour of his accommodating but most uncomfortable companion. On the third day his torment was excruciating, and the poor wretch seemed about to expire in unsufferable misery. "Wretch that I am!" he exclaimed, when alone in his nether apartment--"Wretch that I am, born to misfortune and tormented while living by the execrable brood of hell." "_Execrable brood of hell!_" sang the little gentleman with a most musical sneer, as he rolled from all parts of the body of his victim and appeared in _propria persona_ before him. "I meant no offence," roared the affrighted Farragio. "Nor is it taken as such," replied his polite tormentor, who appeared to be in a very pleasant humor, accompanying every word with a most condescending smile. Farragio stammered out "I was--you know when--sir--you are acquain--that is you--you remember--remember the advice you gave me on the night when--I sa--you said I ought to be re--re--rev"-- "Revenged." "Exactly." "To blood." "Aye, and more than blood." "What! would you touch the soul?" "Yes, and punish it forever."