Here the Sage was rudely interrupted by a voice, which said, “I know of something yet more unlucky than all of these,—something which neither great nor small, neither Pasha nor Sage, may do with impunity.”
Shacabac fixed an angry eye in the direction of the intruder, but lowered it when he discovered the speaker to be Badeg, who was gazing at him with a contemptuous leer.
“I see a messenger from the palace,” said the Sage; “and this class is now dismissed. Badeg, I will speak with thee anon; for I would fain know what thou hast learned from the stars that is more wondrous than the marvels of which I have humbly discoursed.”
“Speak as thou wishest, or hold thy tongue, if that be wiser,” replied the Astrologer, insolently; “but my words are for thy betters, who may find them more precious than golden sequins, and only less valuable than my silence.”
With this significant threat, Badeg wrapped his mantle about him, and strode away, leaving a visible impression on the minds of the students, who listened to him in wonder.
Shacabac, much disconcerted, repaired to the palace, where he remained long in consultation with the Pasha and his spouse.
But, in a case wholly without precedent in history or fiction, the wisdom of even so great a man as Shacabac is necessarily at fault: the experience of one so aged as Muley Mustapha avails no more than the instincts of a child. Only the intuition of the superior mind finds a solution of the difficulty, or, at worst, a means of deferring the catastrophe.
The present case proved to be no exception. After listening patiently to the timid suggestions of her lord and the ineffectual though sagacious aphorisms of the Vizier, Kayenna calmly observed: “I see that there is but one way of settling the matter. I will go with the child to Nhulpar.”
“And tell the King the truth?” cried both men, in consternation.
“And tell the King the truth,” echoed Kayenna, blandly.