Dark red glows in this daemons innumerable eyes. It plays dead, like a flower without water. Then it burrows into its prey--quick, sharp, and drinks the blood. A little nourishment provokes a violent appetite. Any which the hungry organs cannot quell it will bite till death comes. This is what feeds a fearful stench in lonely places. Beasts shun it, and it shuns men. Wisely kept penned up in dark corners it never rots, and decay gnaws at its weak exterior. Only foul priests and insatiate nobles use it, for in its ghastly light the poison no longer works. Guards never dare approach it lest they feel its dim mastery of the poison. Only peasants curse it, "Blessed are the merciful who see", for those who see it curse the Lord who spent all eternity therein. At night there is no light; but when sun and moon come out it shines spectrally in the feeble candle flame of a small hearth on the steep mountain side. Those without eyes cannot read something cannot be read. They both saw it whilst I slept. There are more of them than I can tell. And frightful is the thought that some day my fathers may find these things growing thicker--crawl under the stones of the chimney.