The two old cronies held together a long discourse of which, most likely, I was the subject.

At the end of the dialogue, which was carried on in the patois of Forli, the witch having received a silver ducat from my grandmother, opened a box, took me in her arms, placed me in the box and locked me in it, telling me not to be frightened--a piece of advice which would certainly have had the contrary effect, if I had had any wits about me, but I was stupefied.

I kept myself quiet in a corner of the box, holding a handkerchief to my nose because it was still bleeding, and otherwise very indifferent to the uproar going on outside.

I could hear in turn, laughter, weeping, singing, screams, shrieks, and knocking against the box, but for all that I cared nought.

At last I am taken out of the box; the blood stops flowing.