She did so. It was cold as ice.
“Let go her hand,” said the queen.
“I won’t,” said Colin. “She’s mine.”
“Give me the bottle then,” said the queen.
“Don’t,” said the child.
But it was too late. The queen had it.
“Keep your girl,” she cried, with an ugly laugh.
“Yes, keep me,” cried the child.
The cry ended in a hiss.
Colin felt something slimy wriggling in his grasp, and looking down, saw that instead of a little girl he was holding a great writhing worm. He had almost flung it from him, but recovering himself, he grasped it tighter.
“If it’s a snake, I’ll choke it,” he said. “If it’s a girl, I’ll keep her.”
The same instant it changed to a little white rabbit, which looked him piteously in the face, and pulled to get its little forefoot out of his hand. But, though he tried not to hurt it, Colin would not let it go. Then the rabbit changed to a great black cat, with eyes that flashed green fire. She sputtered and spit and swelled her tail, but all to no purpose. Colin held fast. Then it was a wood pigeon, struggling and fluttering in terror to get its wing out of his hold. But Colin still held fast.
All this time the queen had been getting the cork out. The moment it yielded she gave a scream and dropped the bottle. The Carasoyn ran out, and a strange odour filled the cottage. The queen stood shivering and sobbing beside the bottle, and all her court came about her and shivered