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Updated: May 24, 2025
She was a girl again; she was Hilda of the dove-cote; not that doubtful creature whom her own doves had hardly recognized as their mistress and playmate, by reason of the death-scent that clung to her garments! After she had ceased to speak, Hilda heard the priest bestir himself with an old man's reluctant movement.
Ah! but in some low and obscure nook, some narrow closet on the ground-floor, shut, locked and bolted, and the key flung away, or beneath the marble pavement, in a stagnant water-puddle, with the richest pattern of mosaic-work above, may lie a corpse, half decayed, and still decaying, and diffusing its death-scent all through the palace!
Or, at least, our merry company of artists? Or is it some blood-stain on me, or death-scent in my garments? They say that monstrous deformities sprout out of fiends, who once were lovely angels. Do you perceive such in me already? Tell me, by our past friendship, Hilda, all you know."
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