Spitting fire, the black Cat darted out
of the ink-glass, which was standing on the table, and ran mewing
toward the crone, who shrieked in loud triumph and along with him
vanished through the door.
Anselmus observed that she went toward the azure chamber, and directly
he heard a hissing and storming in the distance; the birds in the
garden were crying; the Parrot creaked out: "Help! help! Thieves!
thieves!" That moment the crone returned with a bound into the room,
carrying the Golden Pot on her arm, and, with hideous gestures,
shrieking wildly through the air; "Joy! joy, little son!--Kill the
green Snake! To her, son! To her!"
Anselmus thought he heard a deep moaning, heard Serpentina's voice.
Then horror and despair took hold of him; he gathered all his force,
he dashed violently, as if nerve and artery were bursting, against the
crystal; a piercing clang went through the room, and the Archivarius
in his bright damask nightgown was standing in the door.
"Hey, hey! vermin!--Mad spell!--Witchwork!--Hither, holla!" So shouted
he; then the black hair of the crone started up like bristles; her
red eyes glanced with infernal fire, and clenching together the peaked
fangs of her ample jaws, she hissed: "Hiss, at him! Hiss, at him!
Hiss!" and laughed and haw-hawed in scorn and mockery, and pressed
the Golden Pot firmly toward her, and threw out of it handfuls of
glittering earth on the Archivarius; but as it touched the nightgown
the earth changed into flowers, which rained down on the ground.
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