“Do you want to make me believe that you have the gift of prophecy?”
Gravely, she replied:
“Yes; I have.”
“What, you are a prophetess!” I cried, smiling. “Here is something strange!”
“You sneer and you doubt because you have never seen a prophetess so near at hand. How did you wish them to look?”
“I thought that they must be virgins.”
“That’s not necessary,” she replied, with assurance.
The threatening carriage had disappeared at a turning of the road. But Jahel’s uneasiness had, without his acknowledging it, impressed M. d’Anquetil, who ordered the postboys to hurry their horses, promising them extra good tips. And by an excess of care he passed to each of them a bottle of the wine that the abbé had placed in reserve in the bottom of the carriage.
The postillions made their horses feel the stimulus that the wine gave to them.
“You can calm yourself, Jahel,” said he; “at the speed we are going that antique coach, drawn by the horses of the Apocalypse, will never catch us.”