For some moments the fortune-teller looked seriously up at the heavens.
“Let it be,” he finally mumbled with compassion, “but mark you, master cook, the depth of my benevolence!”
When the cook had provided him with rice-cakes and two squares of fat pork he squatted down upon his heels and munched contentedly, while the cook crouched by his side and waited. Now and then the fortune-teller would stretch his neck and peer mysteriously through the gathering twilight at the tall figure standing so still beside the stone pillar of the guardhouse, and the cook at the same time stretched his neck and peered fearfully through the shadows.
After the fortune-teller finished his cakes and pork he drew from his paraphernalia a small-bowled pipe. When he had taken a few puffs, he asked in a low voice:
“What do you see, cook?”
“He is still there,” answered the cook in a whisper.
“What else do you see?”
“He stares like a big-eyed owl.”
“What is an owl?”
“A bird of bad omen.”