"Poor creatures," exclaimed Miss Cuffe, "what lives of hideous toil. I suppose they don't know what happiness and love mean?"
"Oh, yes, they are sufficiently happy when they bring off a good bargain, and they love their plot of land, their ancestral acre, with a fierce devouring ardour, passing the love of women."
"How much you know," sighed Miss Cuffe admiringly; "how much you tell me, that I never heard before."
"And here comes one who will possibly impart some events which are yet to come," and Mr. Lindsay indicated the tall lanky figure which was advancing in the wake of the chuprassis.
The Fakir was an old man, singularly emaciated. He wore a simple loin cloth and a row of huge beads; his legs were bandy, his voice was bass, his hair matted, in his eyes there was a piercing look bordering on madness. He came straight up to Lindsay and salaamed, entirely ignoring the opium wallah, and the three ladies.
"Take off your wedding ring, and lend it to me," whispered Miss Cuffe to Angel, "and we will see if we cannot puzzle him."
"Shall I tell the stars of the Lord Sahib only?" asked the Fakir, "and in his ear?"
"Oh, no," responded Lindsay, "the stars of the company, and one by one, so that all may hear—what the fates have in store for them."
"Yes, what fun it will be," said Miss Cuffe. "Mrs. Ellis," to her friend, "will you be done? Do, it will be so amusing."
"No, thank you," said the lady, "I am quite willing to listen to your fortunes, but I beg to decline hearing mine."