The Fakir now beckoned solemnly to Mrs. Gordon, who, with a half apologetic laugh, came forward. He looked her in the face with his burning eyes, and said in a harsh voice:
"Where love should be—is emptiness. Where love should not be—lo! there it is."
Angel glanced involuntarily at Mr. Lindsay; he had grown curiously white.
"A shade cometh—I see no more." And again he dismissed his victim with a profound salaam.
"Dear me, what rubbish it all is," protested Mrs. Gordon, as she took her seat with a somewhat heightened colour.
"He is like Micaiah, the son of Imlah, who prophesied evil things; see, he is beckoning Mr. Lindsay. I wonder what terrible message he will deliver to him?"
"Lo, here are brains," announced the seer in his sonorous Hindustani,—understood of all but the little spinster, "much riches. A heart—some talk—sore trouble. Wisdom and honour come when the head is white, and the heart is dead."
"Now for me," cried Miss Cuffe, rubbing her hands gleefully, and ignorantly rushing on her fate. "I declare I am quite nervous. I cannot bear his eyes. Mr. Lindsay, do please stand close beside me and interpret." Then she beamed coquettishly on the grim native, as if she would exhort good fortune by her smiles.
He looked at her, with fierce contempt, and said, "Lo, 'tis a weakling, Miss Sahib, thou art a fool; the ring belongs to the tall sad girl, with the hungry heart, and the daring spirit. Such a ring will never be thine. I smell death."
"What does he say?" cried Miss Cuffe, as soon as she was dismissed. "Do tell me at once, Mr. Lindsay; I hope it was something good?"