“The devil! That is an ill word upon young lips, my friend,” said the sage, shaking his head in reproof.
“I daresay,” replied Adrian, “but what the—I mean how did you get here? I never heard the door open.”
“How did I get here? Well, now you mention it, I wonder how I did. The door—what have I to do with doors?”
“I am sure I don’t know,” answered Adrian shortly, “but most people find them useful.”
“Enough of such material talk,” interrupted the sage with sternness. “Your spirit cried to mine, and I am here, let that suffice.”
“I suppose that Black Meg fetched you,” went on Adrian, sticking to his point, for the philtre fiasco had made him suspicious.
“Verily, friend Adrian, you can suppose what you will; and now, as I have little time to spare, be so good as to set out the matter. Nay, what need, I know all, for have I not—is this the case? You administered the philtre to the maid and neglected my instructions to offer yourself to her at once. Another saw it and took advantage of the magic draught. While the spell was on her he proposed, he was accepted—yes, your brother Foy. Oh! fool, careless fool, what else did you expect?”
“At any rate I didn’t expect that,” replied Adrian in a fury. “And now, if you have all the power you pretend, tell me what I am to do.”
Something glinted ominously beneath the hood, it was the sage’s one eye.
“Young friend,” he said, “your manner is brusque, yes, even rude. But I understand and I forgive. Come, we will take counsel together. Tell me what has happened.”