He entered the stable, and afterwards the cart-house, but she was neither here nor there.

Next he went towards the rear of the _osteria_ in order to look in the sheds.

But all at once an unexpected spectacle made him stop short.
The little black hen was lying on the ground, dead, killed as by lightning.

She showed no sign of hurt; there was nothing but a little streamlet of violet blood still trickling from her beak.

Prada was at first merely astonished.