The necromancer took two steps forward and seized Mr. Mole's hand.
"I find that the line of life is tinged with the hue of blood," said he, in solemn tones, after a lengthened inspection of the palm.
"Dear me, how unpleasant—I washed my hands not long ago."
"Man! do you think you can wash away the decrees of fate or sponge out the solemn words written by the stars? You are an Englishman?"
"Certainly."
"Already six Englishman have sought me, and each of the six died a terrible death. What says the book?—
"A terrible death on this green earth,
With never the slightest chance of heaven;
Let him curse the day—the hour of his birth,
The English victim numbered seven."
"And you are Number Seven, Mr. Mole. May all the powers of heaven and earth preserve me from such a terrible doom as yours."
Mr. Mole almost fainted when the magician uttered such fearful words respecting his (Mole's) fate.
Harry Girdwood, however, handed him a rum flask, and a good pull at that restored his nerves.