A dirty label was pasted on the canister, bearing this quaint inscription in the Italian language: "If there is any of the powder we employ in making some of our prettiest colours, left in here, I request my good wife, or any other trustworthy person in her place, to put a seal on it, and take it directly to the manufactory, with the late foreman's best respects.

It looks like nice sugar.

Beware of looks--or you may taste poison." On the point of opening the canister she hesitated.

Under some strange impulse, she did what a child might have done: she shook it, and listened.
The rustle of the rising and falling powder--renewing her terror--seemed to exercise some irresistible fascination over her.

"The devil's dance," she said to herself, with a ghastly smile.