So abrupt, so unexpected were these words that my reaction could not have been more violent had a hired assassin snuck up behind me and discharged a pistol at my back. Emitting a startled cry, I lost my hold upon the heavy candelabrum and let it fly from my hand; while Crockett swiftly spun around to face the unseen speaker. As he did so, he caught sight of the airborne candelabrum and—shooting out a hand——snatched it by the stem.

“Good heavens!” cried Roger Asher—for it was, indeed, that singular being who had come up behind us in so stealthy a manner. “Are you all right, Mr. Poe?”

A moment passed before I was fully capable of speech. “Fine, quite fine,” I said at last, extracting my pocket handkerchief and using it to dab away the moisture that had sprung to my brow and upper lip. “Your abrupt and unanticipated observation merely caught me unawares.”

“Well, I ain’t so all-fired fine,” Crockett proclaimed.

Raising one eyebrow, Asher turned to regard the frontiersman. “And what is the matter, Colonel Crockett?”

“This here’s the matter,” the frontiersman replied——and with that, he thrust the candelabrum close to the glass-fronted case, illuminating the appalling object within.

“Ah yes,” smiled Asher, rubbing his long, pale hands together as though attempting to cleanse them of a stain visible only to himself. “Magnificent, is she not?”

“Magnificent!” Crockett cried, nearly sputtering with indignation. “Why, in all my born days, I ain’t never set eyes on nuthin’ that were half so horrificacious!”

For a moment, Asher simply stared at him in wordless surprise. Then a burst of hilarity issued from his throat. “I see! I see!” he said when his laughter had finally subsided. “You take her for the real thing. Ah well. It is a tribute to the genius of the great Fontana!”

“Fontana?” I exclaimed “Do you mean the renowned Florentine naturalist?”

Turning in my direction, Asher gazed at me with an approving look. “My compliments, Mr. Poe. I perceive that you are a man of rare erudition”

I acknowledged this commendation with a little bow.

“You are correct,” Asher continued. “The objet displayed within this cabinet is, indeed, an original product of the esteemed abbot’s atelier.”

“The steamed abbot’s what?” Crocked: ejaculated.

“His studio,” said I to Crockett as I turned to gaze again at the cabinet—not, this time, with the sense of unutterable horror with which I had formerly contemplated its contents, but with a sentiment of the purest admiration—astonishment—even awe.