The deformed transformed / by Ronald Ross.

  • Ross, Ronald, Sir, 1857-1932.
Date:
1890
Catalogue details

Licence: Public Domain Mark

Credit: The deformed transformed / by Ronald Ross. Source: Wellcome Collection.

Provider: This material has been provided by Royal College of Physicians, London. The original may be consulted at Royal College of Physicians, London.

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    Biiun.— No, you shall not see it: My child is beautiful, and you are a witch; It is my child—I shall not drink here. P omp.—- There, Poor creature! drink this milk ; you have it for nothing. She means you well. Biiun.— I shall not drink the milk; She is a witch and poisons it. [Exit. Mor.—■ Fie then ! A surly baggage—doubtless the brat is hunched. Zoz.—Oh look, look, look ! Zozimo points out a magnificent rapier, and a cloak and hat of fine velvet, embellished and embroidered with emeralds and diamonds. These are throivn carelessly on a rough bench, rather out of sight. Pomp.— Mercy upon us, child ! Where found you these 1 Zoz.— But now I brought the bench in. Pomp.—Who placed them here ! Zoz.—- I cannot tell you, mistress. Pomp.—Mercy upon us ! are these emeralds And veritable diamonds that glitter ? Heaven help us, one of these same gems would buy A whole inn up,—beer, bacon, beef and all; And now these things are flung here all of a heap, Like old duds ! Zoz.— Shall I fold them, mistress ? Pomp.— Touch not! Not if you dare : it would be death to touch them ! Some mighty lord is here—run, Zozimo, run—• Bring the best tankard—doubtless he is gone To the stable —I will meet him. Bustle, bustle, The count will be here in an hour, and dinner Not cooked, the table not laid ! Run, Zozimo, run ; Put out the best cloth, have the flagons clean. Bustle, bustle. [Ex'.t. Zoz.— You have grown pale my mother. Mor.—Pale, yes ; and tremble. Let me see these things, Zoz.—Is it these clothes that frighten you? Mor.— Touch them not! I have grown pale indeed! and their black colour Confirms my whiteness. Wind and storm without. Zoz.— Mother, you amaze me. Mor.—Some houses have a curse that hangs upon them. The thing that maimed you menaces your sister, Or I am mad to name it. Were you a man, And not the feeble thing you are, I think