Wondering what would follow, Dorothy gazed on, when she suddenly lost sight of Mistress Nutter, and after looking for her as far as her range of vision, limited by the aperture, would extend, she became convinced that she had left the room.  All remaining quiet, she ventured, after awhile, to quit her hiding-place, and flying to Alizon, tried to waken her, but in vain.  The poor girl retained the same moveless attitude, and appeared plunged in a deathly stupor.

Much frightened, Dorothy resolved to alarm the house, but some fears of Mistress Nutter restrained her, and she crept towards the closet to see whether that dread lady could be there.  All was perfectly still; and somewhat emboldened, she returned to the table, where the box, which was left open and its contents unguarded, attracted her attention.

What was the liquid in the phial?  What could it do?  These were questions she asked herself, and longing to try the effect, she ventured at last to pour forth a few drops and taste it.  It was like a potent distillation, and she became instantly sensible of a strange bewildering excitement.  Presently her brain reeled, and she laughed wildly.  Never before had she felt so light and buoyant, and wings seemed scarcely wanting to enable her to fly.  An idea occurred to her.  The wondrous liquid might arouse Alizon.  The experiment should be tried at once, and, dipping her finger in the phial, she touched the lips of the sleeper, who sighed deeply and opened her eyes.  Another drop, and Alizon was on her feet, gazing at her in astonishment, and laughing wildly as herself.

Poor girls! how wild and strange they looked—­and how unlike themselves!

“Whither are you going?” cried Alizon.

“To the moon! to the stars!—­any where!” rejoined Dorothy, with a laugh of frantic glee.

“I will go with you,” cried Alizon, echoing the laugh.

“Here and there!—­here and there!” exclaimed Dorothy, taking her hand.  “Emen hetan!  Emen hetan!”

As the mystic words were uttered they started away.  It seemed as if no impediments could stop them; how they crossed the closet, passed through a sliding panel into the abbot’s room, entered the oratory, and from it descended, by a secret staircase, to the garden, they knew not—­but there they were, gliding swiftly along in the moonlight, like winged spirits.  What took them towards the conventual church they could not say.  But they were drawn thither, as the ship was irresistibly dragged towards the loadstone rock described in the Eastern legend.  Nothing surprised them then, or they might have been struck by the dense vapour, enveloping the monastic ruins, and shrouding them from view; nor was it until they entered the desecrated fabric, that any consciousness of what was passing around returned to them.