Osman is sent for; but startled at so sudden and unexpected an interview with the King himself in such a whimsical attire, scarcely knows how to reply to the gibes his Majesty addressed to him.
“Come, come,” says the King, “let us hear what you can do. They tell me you draw horoscopes. Let me have a specimen of your skill.”
“Sire,” replies Osman, somewhat recovered from his confusion, “I will obey you; but, as sure as fate, the heavens this night are unpropitious. The light of the moon is veiled; there are signs of mourning among the stars; lamentations and woe are written in the planets; a great misfortune hangs over you—Beware!”
“By St. Denis!” cries the King, “the fellow is glib enough with his tongue; but tell me, good heathen, are the stars in mourning for a king or for an emperor?”
“Sire, they mourn over the approaching extinction of your race.”
“Heaven preserve us!” answers the King, with affected consternation, caressing his puppies. “But tell me now, if you have any knowledge, what do the celestial powers think of those accursed rebels, the Leaguers, and their chief, the Duc de Mayenne? Is that bold traitor in favour among the stars?”
Osman does not at once reply; but, advancing to the window, throws open the sash, and silently observes the heavens.
“Sire, I see one star shining brightly in the firmament.”
“Where?” asks the King.
“Just over the Camp of Meudon, where Henry of Navarre lies this night. But look, your Majesty, at that other star there over the woods. It blazes for a moment; and now, see—it falls; it has disappeared behind the palace!”